


Interesting Times

by Archangel_Beth



Category: In Nomine
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Help, Multi, crackfic pairing, oh no it turned plausible, original characters show up - Freeform, rather a lot of original characters after a while, some chapters have NSFW, some chapters have consensual bondage, some chapters have consensual pain-play, some chapters have content warnings, some chapters have self-harm, some chapters were written out of order, trying to mark those with beginning Notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2005-03-06
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2020-01-13 13:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 85
Words: 110,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel_Beth/pseuds/Archangel_Beth
Summary: Armageddon.It's the Final Battle, with the Host of Heaven against the Hordes of Hell. Michael and Baal step forward, for their fated, destined duel.But God stacked the deck a long, long time ago...(When I first wrote this, I thought the first chapter would be the only chapter. I thought I was only trying to write crackfic to make a crack-pairing plausible. Ahhhhahahahhahaha. *facepalm*)Chapters will be posted in order of writing, which will include flashbacks, drabbles, etc. Maybe even an occasional AU of this AU. Tense shifts between chapters Will Happen. (Will have happened, even.)





	1. Interesting Times

* * *

Michael walks out, into the field. Laurence murmurs, "God be with us all," as the Champion passes. And then Laurence waits, his sword held at shoulder-height, parallel to the ground. His armor is metal plate, black as his manifested wings.

When the Champions are engaged, he mentally signals the others. _Remember, target the most troublesome first._ When the Champions are done, some say that the battle will be decided. Until then, though, they have Free Will.

And despite appearances, Laurence has learned a few dirty tricks. The armies of Hell will wait for their General. The armies of Heaven have their Commander undistracted.

His sword flashes down, and he leads the attack.

They flow like smoke around the battling Champions.

*****

_Each according to their power._ He hacks at the last bits of Saminga's wretched form, while Jordi snaps and rends -- the Archangel of Animals has been helping nearly everyone, and only Laurence is unsurprised.

The Shedite Prince falls, his last Forces screaming into the Symphony, and Jordi takes his own Forces elsewhere as Laurence drops back into corporeal form. The Malakite glances to the center, the Champions, and sees that they are still standing. Baal is furious, and Michael is annoyed -- but Heaven's Champion knows better than to be distracted, while Hell's Champion cannot help but have divided attention.

Baal is likely a match, and more, for the Archangel of the Sword -- but no other single Prince is, upon the battlefield. Baal would not have let them be.

His teeth showing, Laurence uses Essence to protect himself, and then to try to get close to the conflagration that marks where Fire screams. He remembers every dishonorable, underhanded trick that Michael ever tried to teach him, and today... today he may use them all.

*****

He doesn't make it (though he sees that Jordi and David are both closing in on the Prince of Fire). His way is blocked by a man in white robes, shining like the sun, red-gold hair streaming. Lucifer is as beautiful as he is deadly, and as deadly as he is furious. Laurence can barely see the female form behind the Adversary, clad in mail and carrying a naginata, the long-bladed oriental spear. 

Laurence has had a thousand planned speeches, battlecries, and retorts for this moment. And all he can do is lunge silently, before his sword is batted out of his hand by Lucifer's, and the Lightbringer's open palm somehow throws him backwards onto the ground. He can't catch his breath -- can only watch as the uncleanly glowing blade descends toward him.

Can only watch as the blade of a naginata thrusts through the First Fallen's chest.

The Balseraph's eyes are wide, shocked. And then the power of a Word flows through the naginata, and the vessel is only meat. The Forces within... are Freed, returning to the Symphony in shreds.

The unclean blade flickers out, and the empty hilt lands harmlessly on Laurence's left wing. He stares up at the Princess as she lets the empty vessel slide off her naginata. Her own eyes... seem empty. He cannot tell if she is numb or at peace.

All around him, Princes and Word-bound demons are screaming. A war has become a rout.

*****

Notre Dame still stands, and as humans put their lives and world back together, the Seraphim Council meets in the secret chambers of their greatest Tether. They are lessened by many -- but the casualties are miraculously light. 

Laurence pulls a dagger from his Scabbard and hammers on the podium. The questions are coming too fast and furious, and the former Princess is ignoring them all.

When he has silence, he asks, "Why?"

She looks up at him, meeting his eyes. "I made a deal with God," she replies. Her voice is tired, not gloating, not snide, not smug. "I don't know what His side of the bargain is. But He owes me."

Laurence glances to the side, expecting to see Dominic shrug as Seraphim do when confronted with the Ineffable. Instead, the Archangel of Judgment is rigid and staring. Quickly, Laurence looks to the others. Michael and Litheroy are equally shocked, as is every other Seraph in the room.

As he looks back, Dominic chokes out, "It is _True_!"

The room erupts into noise and questions again. Lilith only watches the floor a few feet in front of her.

*****

Much later, in a smaller room, Laurence, Michael, and Dominic wait as Jean places a small "audio-visual device" on the table in front of the former Princess, and then leaves. 

Dominic stays in the corner chair, where he all but collapsed earlier. Michael props up the wall. Laurence sits in a chair of his own, carefully, because he is not sure his knees are up to more shocks. "You... were a double-agent?"

She watches her hands, mostly. They are in front of her, resting on the table, fingers interlaced. "From the start. No angel could do it. But humans... we are like Malakim. We cannot Fall. I was probably created for the purpose. Or contingency."

A thousand questions rattle in his mind -- his own and those of the Council who watch and listen in another room. What he asks first is, "Why did you choose then to act?"

Her eyes flick up to meet his, and for the first time he is caught by how green they are -- bright flecks and dark streaks combining to something hypnotic. "Two reasons," she says, her voice as level and tired as it has been since she let them take her prisoner. "Firstly, he was sufficiently distracted to permit the attempt. Secondly, it would have been counterproductive to allow him to kill the Commander of the Host."

He waits for some flippant "Thirdly" to come. Something flirtatious or snide, as she has always been around him. But she is silent.

*****

Days later, she is still in the protective custody cell. He paces, as she sits at the table and watches her hands as much as him. 

"We have secured most of Hell," he says. "The Lower Hells... are sealed off. Yves says it is meant to be, and when we say we cannot find Kronos, he doesn't seem surprised. We have located the others, though. Dominic is scheduling trials."

Her expression reveals nothing. His resonances skitter and scrabble from a shell around her that might as well be diamond to a kitten's claws.

"We have captured thousands of your daughters." He pauses, and thinks maybe her eyes flicker as she turns them back to her hands. "Don't you _care_?"

For once, her lips twitch into a tiny smile. "I have spent a very long time in Hell, Laurence. I'm not going to suddenly start acting like Novalis."

He pauses, forced to reconsider his assumptions. Distracted, he says, "I'm glad." And then pauses again, surprised by how true it is.

*****

It is astonishing, how much time he has available when demonic incursions are _clean up_. He finds that his appointment people and Marc's have somehow arranged for him to have coffee with the Archangel of Trade. 

Marc's eyepatch is mostly for show, but it gives him a raffish air as he hands over Laurence's cup. He hasn't explained how he came to be facing Vapula alone for a few near-fatal moments. Laurence doesn't believe the glib allusions to spam or force-feeding a cell-phone to the Habbalite.

"How are you holding up?" the Mercurian asks. "Lilith says that you seem stressed when you visit her."

It's a good thing that Laurence doesn't need to breathe in Heaven, or the coffee would be a painful thing and not simply odd. He can't decide whether to say, _She notices?_ or, _She cares?_ Instead, he opts for, "I find her unsettling."

Marc sips his own coffee. "If God did not believe in Trading from time to time, I wouldn't be an Archangel."

"And if He didn't believe in dirty tricks, neither would Michael," Laurence sighs. Then he watches, fascinated, as Marc apparently forgets he doesn't need to breathe.

*****

Lilith is reading a book when he lets himself into the room. She doesn't bother to bookmark it as she puts it down and rests her hands upon the table. Laurence looks around, and sees... very little. A deck of cards. A few more books. A laptop computer, closed. A covered basket that plainly came from Novalis, and which he does not want to know any more about. 

When he looks back, Lilith is watching him patiently, and he realizes that he is not sure why he's there.

"There's a fencing salle down here," he opens his mouth and says. "If you'd like some exercise."

Her gaze falls to her hands again. "I'm a bit beyond Soldiers."

He only hesitates a moment. "Michael's not sparring with me. He's hanging around with David, trying to, I quote, get drunk enough. I could use the exercise."

The smile is more obvious this time. "I think I'd like that."

*****

More people are visiting her, and he can't tell if he's worried or not. He confesses this to Dominic, who sighs and tells him to go to a real priest. He does, but it doesn't help. 

He learns how to play canasta when he shows up at the same time as Marc and Novalis -- but he's better at Spades.

"Word-bias, clearly," Lilith says as she totals up their scores.

It feels odd, the way she says it, and the way the other two laugh, but he doesn't know why.

*****

A few days later, as he escorts her back from the salle, he asks her, "Is... is it hard, staying here?" 

She pauses, and looks up at him. "What do you mean?"

"You're... just waiting, it seems. Dominic is too busy to call for your trial, or even an investigation about whether there should _be_ a trial." He wants to say, _You're a prisoner here. Doesn't this bother you?_ But he's not sure how.

She looks down, into the infinity within the air between her and the ground. There's a small smile on her lips. "Laurence... Some of the legends are true about me. I know the Name of God. I could go anywhere I want."

As he works to adjust to this, she moves past him and opens her door. She smiles over her shoulder as she lets it shut behind her.

*****

What did you bargain for?" Laurence asks, over canasta. Jean is winning, this time, though Marc is not far behind. 

Lilith shuffles and deals. "To be rewarded."

"That must have taken a lot of faith," he says as he takes his cards.

She picks up her own. "It still does."

*****

When Novalis brings art supplies to Lilith, it's oddly easy to find time to pose for her. But they don't talk much. No matter how much he watches her, he can't tell what she thinks. It makes sense, he finally realizes. All her frivolity would have been layered over a shell of secrecy. Without the need to divert anyone... 

And then he wonders what it's like for her to come out of Hell, and simply wait.

He's afraid to ask, and doesn't know why.

*****

In the salle, Michael staggers in -- apparently "enough drunk" for the moment. "Kid," he says. "I demand a rematch." 

Lilith pulls off her padded jacket and unwraps her belt. (She knitted it herself, and buried one of the needles an inch into the door beside his head when he looked startled. He immediately made a note that this was a repeat of the Hatpin Revelation.) To his surprise, she knots the thing around his arm.

"What?" she says. "Doesn't every knight need a lady's favor?"

When he's laid the elder Seraph sprawling on the floor, Michael laughs and says, "Right. I must be drunk enough now. I'll go tell David."

Lilith comes over, but when he offers to return her belt, she shakes her head. "I recall you're supposed to keep it."

She kisses him on the cheek.

After he escorts her back to her room, he goes to pray.

*****

In his own chapel in Heaven, Laurence can pray as much as he wants. It's where Gabriel finds him. The Ofanite swirls and does not manifest a human form at all. 

"Do you hope you will serve God, or that He will find another tool?" it asks, and then spins away without explaining.

"Ouch," he says aloud, and then winces. He's been spending too much time with Trade and Flowers.

And Freedom.

*****

"Could... could you _talk_ to them?" Laurence asks. "They're your Daughters. Surely..." 

"What would I say?" she asks in return.

She's never repented, to his knowledge. She can't be redeemed, the way celestials can. He taps his chest above his heart, acknowledging the touch. "Maybe... that we are not like Hell? That they can listen?"

She sighs, and watches her hands. "All right. Because you ask."

She doesn't say he owes her.

He makes a point to kiss the back of her hand before he leaves.

*****

Laurence is the first one to visit after Michael and David pay their respects. He stands among the cases of alcohol, speechless. 

"I think they're planning on sobering up," Lilith says as she brings another crate out of the bathroom and stacks it just outside her door. "I don't know why they left it with me. Alcohol is a depressant. A glass of wine now and then is one thing, but give me this much and you'd probably find me drowned in the bathtub."

He helps her put it all outside in the hall, and sends for Servitors to store it away.

"Has Marc asked you out to dinner yet?" he says afterward.

"No." She pushes her hair over her shoulder. "I think you're the one who'll have to decide the limits of my house arrest slash protective custody."

"Would you like to go out to dinner?" he finds himself asking.

She smiles. "Yes."

*****

After the fifth dinner, out of the Tether, she pauses when he brings her back to her door. He looks down into her eyes, and when she slides her gaze away and down, he reaches out to her cheek with a finger. His chest feels tight when she responds to the pressure, and looks up at him again. 

She feels fragile in his arms, even though he knows she's strong enough to challenge him in the salle. (He wins, of course. But it's never trivial.) The sensations, the emotions... They are confusing. Literally, he does not understand them, cannot put a name to what he feels. He whispers, "Must I be your reward?"

Her smile is wry, or even bitter. "Oh, Laurence." She puts a hand on his chest. "You nearly have white wings. Maybe I'm supposed to be your reward."

She turns and leaves him outside as she goes into her rooms.

He stands there, with his own path uncertain and his world whirling around him. He can't say he understands how she feels, but of a sudden he grasps... something. Something human and confused. Something alone, and complex.

He remembers her tying a "favor" around his arm. He remembers the crimes she has not denied.

 _How do Mercurians manage?_ he wonders, wishing that Dominic had at least launched an Inquisition into the matter so he could know how he _should_ feel.

But when he hears crying behind the door, he doesn't call Marc. (He wonders if he should.)

He doesn't know if he's enough. If any of them or all of them are enough, for a single human in their midst. But he goes in (the locks are relics, and open to his hand), and he closes the door behind him.

It's the first time that having faith is confusing.


	2. Another Angle

* * *

* * *

Nybbas checks his camera again, making sure the complicated gadgetry is working right. He has to keep it stable while he's flying, after all. Can't have Baal's shining moment all jittery from the overhead view.

Can't have the tactical vids all jittery, either, which is the other ostensible reason why Nybbas is stuck this close to the front lines. He knows Baal is hoping that the Prince of the Media will be a big fat target for someone -- Eli or Marc, maybe -- and they'll waste energy taking him out. He also knows that good footage is the only way he'd survive surviving, if Baal wins.

If.

That may be a big if.

Nybbas doesn't like that.

He likes it less when his headset whispers to him. _Contrary to popular opinion, I have always valued inspired design,_ it says in his ear.

"I don't have tiiiiime for this," he mutters.

_Nor do I,_ comes the return whisper. _But this may be the last chance we have for this offer._

He adjusts the aim and focus of the camera, zooming in on the armies of Heaven and the part with the most rayguns. The Archangel there has pockets and pouches full of... things. Batteries, maybe. Nybbas mutters, "Talk to me after this is all over, babe."

_Don't get killed,_ his headset whispers.

"Good advice," he grumbles into thin air.

Then he has to focus back on the field, because Michael's done being fashionably late and the Battle of the Century is about to start. He's gotta get the right angles, gotta make sure he gets all the close-ups on Baal, gotta get every bit of footage.

He hates himself, not much later, when he realizes that he missed the part where Heaven launches the attack early.

*****

The air is too damned dangerous, between the genetically engineered death-locusts of Technology, the possessed death-locusts of Animals, the natural bugs, and the mechanical things which might be Tech and might be possessed by some Kyriotate of Lightning. And the angels and demons, of course.

Nybbas is filming desperately, trying to keep an eye on the two Champions -- because Baal will kill him if he doesn't, and Hell wins -- and give overviews like he's supposed to, for Baal's panicking and desperate second in commands. Wolves come snapping and snarling by, and he launches himself up again, backwinging until he finds a vaguely clear area to land.

He twists his ankle and stumbles, wings flailing, trying to keep the camera from being jolted wrong -- and bumps into someone who catches him under the wings and keeps him steady. He looks over his shoulder, into calm gray eyes, and can't repress a yelp of alarm.

_Are you all right?_ the voice asks in his mind.

"So far," Nybbas grumbles, keeping the camera aimed in the direction of the Baal-Michael brawl. Baal's taking more hits, but Nybbas doesn't want to take chances.

_Good. I don't suppose you've considered my offer?_

"No _time_ , babe!" He scans around to see if there are other threats, and then realizes that he's discounting the biggest threat standing right behind him. He starts edging away.

The Archangel looks like he's going to say something, but then his hand dips into a pocket, and he sends a volley of small things off behind the pair. _No, there's no time,_ he agrees, and vanishes as the small things explode.

Nybbas ducks, and launches himself into the air again because he can hear bigger explosions somewhere else, and he knows explosions are good footage.

*****

He's on the fringes of the fighting, near the clear spot where the Champions are trying their best to kill each other so they can join in the war, when _**IT**_ happens. When his Soundtrack _stops_ and his Word twists and writhes and starts peeling out of his soul. He drops to his knees, screaming as one by one the awareness of his people's camera feeds _drop_ from his mind. His ears ring with silence as the babble of commentators and tactical analyzers fades out. The newsprint smells are gone, leaving only the blood and gore of the battlefield.

His _Word_ is dying inside him, and he doesn't know why. But when he can think past the silence and see past the darkness, he grabs the first being who comes near him -- doesn't even know if it's angel or demon or crazy lost human -- grabs it and Charms it and Drains it dry. It, and the next, and the next, and then he's got enough energy to Sing his way out of there.

When he lands in his safehouse, he grabs his gun and puts it to his vessel's head. He makes sure the microphone is recording, and says, "Limbo is better than this."

It's even true.

And he pulls the trigger.

*****

He unzips the Body Bag in the next room, gets out, and folds it up. It's thin, packs down to something that fits in his coat pocket. He pulls out the data-dump gizmo and sucks in a copy of his footage from the battle.

Then he walks out into the streets. His Word is dead. His Prince's coronet is corroding. The world is in shambles and gone to Heaven, like as not.

He can't think in the silence. It's too quiet. All he can do is walk, and when he feels the wetness on his cheeks, he wonders why it's not blood.

*****

Eventually, he plays the recording. The camera's gyros keep the view steady, focused as Baal's expression changes from rage to shock. The stroke that takes his head off is crystal clear. Nybbas can even put it in slow motion. He doesn't, though. He doesn't like how Michael's face goes from annoyance to triumph to a sort of horror. Seeing it in slow motion would be worse.

Fortunately, he's holed up somewhere with a lot of booze.

He doesn't have to remember anything, if he doesn't want to.

*****

Nybbas doesn't even look up when he hears footsteps. He doesn't have to, because his head is down on the table in the right direction, but that's just coincidence. He'd tell himself, _Maybe an underground shelter was a bad hideout,_ but he's too drunk to care.

Even when the flickering lights show that it was a giant, naked black guy who just walked through the wall.

The Archangel of Stone comes over and leans on the table in front of Nybbas. After a long moment, he says, " _You_ look drunk enough."

*****

Having an Archangel in his hideout has messed with Nybbas' pattern. This bottle is nearly empty, but he doesn't want to get up while David is crouched there. Briefly, he considers throwing the glass in his "guest's" direction, but stops himself before he tries. Stone can't hit first, and Nybbas doesn't feel like being hit at all.

"You wanna drink?" he finally asks, grudgingly.

The reply... lags. Crappy bandwidth, maybe. "You've got enough here."

"I knew where th' Demon of Alcohol kept a safehouse, babe."

"Ah. Michael says we're not drunk enough yet."

While Nybbas ponders _that_ one, David stands and goes over to one of the crates, bringing back two bottles in each hand. He puts two of them next to Nybbas and keeps two for himself.

Nybbas tries to get one of the bottles open, failing miserably, until the Archangel takes it away from him -- and returns it, the cap thoroughly removed. "Thanks," Nybbas mutters.

" _You're_ drunk enough."

He considers the glass, and the bottle, and decides not to waste anything to spillage. He drinks from the bottle. "Nah. I'm only drunk enough when I pass out, babe."

"Going to run out of alcohol eventually."

"Yeah. 'Specially with guests," he points out. "I'll figure something else out in a year or two. 'Sa big cellar down here."

"Mm," David agrees, and they drink silently.

*****

When he wakes up, with the usual hangover, a big black hand guides him to the half-empty bottle, and helps him get "hair of the dog" until the pain ebbs enough to think. Even the pain is better than the silence, so he's not sure if David was being helpful or not. But he says, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"You'd have made a great television anchor, y'know?" It's a sudden spate of babble. It doesn't fill the silence, but it tries. He's babbled to himself in the emptiness before the Archangel came. It's nothing new. "Your voice, your delivery. All deep and rich and stuff."

"I know you think that."

Nybbas blinks. "Y'do?" He doesn't remember babbling before this.

"I redeemed one of your Servitors. It told me." David drinks.

He blinks again. "Oh." He takes a swig of his own. "Oh. Uh, who?"

"A Shedite. A few decades ago. It was riding someone into filming depravities."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, _that_ show. Wondered where it went..." He scratches at his head. He feels filthy, probably is filthy, since all he's been doing is drinking, passing out, and visiting the excuse for a bathroom so his booze doesn't smell like piss.

He'd use the empties, but he doesn't want to risk getting drunk enough to forget which bottles are which.

The silence crowds in, and he lets babble try to fight it. "So, what're you trying to get drunk for? Michael, he whacked his best friend, looked like. But dunno 'bout you. Dunno why you're getting drunk here, either. Not whacking me. Something." He takes a drink.

"I'm getting drunk with Michael, too."

"But _why_? What's the story? There's gotta be a story. This all doesn't happen without a story. The story's the thing, the thing's the story..."

David pushes the bottle toward him, and he takes the cue to drink again.

"Lilith killed Lucifer."

The silence wins over the babble. He can't even lift the bottle.

Finally, he whispers, "Yeah... Yeah, that would do it."

He puts his head down and cries.

*****

David has to go further down the aisle to get the booze. He's been doing it, and Nybbas has been letting him. He doesn't have to sober up enough to walk, this way, and that's fine. It keeps him from screaming into the silence. Keeps him from feeling his way through the darkness. He might as well be blind, without the afterimages of a thousand different broadcasts painting themselves into his eyes. He'd close his eyes, pretend to be blind -- but that way lay spillage, and he only had a few years in the cellar.

This time, David only has one bottle for himself. He sets the other three next to Nybbas, and says, "Michael thinks we are drunk enough now."

"Drunk enough for what?" Nybbas mumbles, reaching for the first bottle. David has helpfully opened it for him.

"To deal with Lilith having been a double-agent all along."

Nybbas chokes on the booze, spilling the bottle into his lap. When he catches his breath, he's truly covered and wet. "Dammit," he mutters, without being able to care. Even the shock falls into the silence and smothers.

He puts his head down in the puddle on the table and closes his eyes. Maybe the silence will smother him as well.

Hands come under his armpits, and he feels himself being dragged up. "Hey! Wha? I didn't! I didn't!"

"I'm not smiting you."

Nybbas tries to make his legs work, so he's not being dragged. "But..."

David props him into the curtainless shower and turns it on. "You stink. You need washing."

"It's _cooooooold_!" he wails as the Malakite pulls his clothes off.

*****

Of course there's no towel. And of course there's no hot water at all. So that's why they wind up on the couch in front of the television, with Nybbas huddled against a naked Archangel who happens to be the only source of warmth in the room that's not coming from a bottle.

He's got one of those, too. It helps a little.

"Yer not gonna stay drunk enough, babe, if you don't keep drinking," he points out when his teeth stop chattering.

"I think we're done now," David says. When Nybbas clutches his bottle possessively, the Malakite clarifies, "Michael and I are done now."

"Good. 'Cause I'm _not_."

*****

Nybbas wakes up with his head pillowed on an Archangel's shoulder, which is definitely a personal first. His mouth tastes horrible, and his head hurts. "This isn't working," he whines.

The television clicks on, and Nybbas manages to pry his eyes open a bit more. Even through the pain and the silence, the view of a naked black Archangel with a TV remote makes the Impudite giggle for a little while. Then it turns into sobbing.

David shakes his shoulder gently. "Here. Who are you talking to here?"

He forces himself to look at the television. It hurts, since he can't just see it in his vision, feel it in his nerves. On the screen, his voiceover is saying, "No _time_ , babe!"

"Lightning," he says. It's a whimper. His head still hurts.

There's a long silence. "You're not dead."

"Debatable, babe."

"You'd be dead -- if he didn't want you alive."

Nybbas leans over, to fumble among the empties for more alcohol. He finds one, and lifts it up.

The Archangel holds his wrist, and takes the bottle away. "No. You should be sober to go to him."

"Whaaaaat?" He hates the whine.

David frowns at him, like a mountain trying to think. Eventually, slowly, he says, "You... are... _wanted_."

It shouldn't make sense. It doesn't. But something in Nybbas cracks, and his shoulders slump. The tears down his face and smearing his glasses are clear, and salty when he tastes them, even though by now all the water in his body should be pure alcohol.

The Malakite sighs. He shifts, and gathers Nybbas into his arms, standing and carrying the Impudite.

They're both naked. Nybbas sniffles against David's shoulder. "My image is so screwed," he whispers.

David sighs again. It's like being held by a particularly gentle and short earthquake. "There are better rooms in Notre Dame. They have clothes."

It's probably better than smiting, at least. It's nothing like he expected, and everything hurts too much to argue anymore. "Okay."

The Symphony rings as the Archangel creates the gate between There and Here. It's not much against the silence in Nybbas' mind -- but it's something.


	3. A Nameless Aftermath

* * *

* * *

When the angels came for him, he was ready. Hell had fallen. His meal-ticket had run out. There was really only one thing left to do.

He used poison. It let him smile as they broke down the door, the disturbance ringing around them.

With no Hell, where would he go? Not a problem.

*****

It felt like a long time later, when he woke. Cold. Naked. Pushed by other cold, naked people. He stumbled along with them, and cursed to himself when he remembered what the Hell was going on.

The Gates were flanked by huge statues -- a winged lion and an angel. Black, lit with torches and spotlights. He gawked at them... until he reached them. Then they might as well have not been there.

Angels. Most of them bleached pure white in a light that came from nowhere. The snake-ones, with their many eyes and feathered wings. They were hovering in a circle, singing to make his heart ache and his ears ring with the pain.

_Holy, Holy, Holy,_ they chanted, their voices rising and falling, weaving a melody that made him want to fall to his knees.

Above their circle, there was one other, with scales of indigo black. Its voice surpassed all the others, weaving a cry of grief throughout their song.

_Why?_ it sang. _Why did he die? O God, why did you let him die? What took him? What took him from us? Where is our master? Where is our father? Where is our beloved? Why, O Lord, why?_

One of the souls next to him was on his knees, then another on hers -- weeping with the anguish in the dark angel's song. The other, pale ones sang _Holy, Holy, Holy_ , a paean of worship.

He shuddered. He felt... guilty. _I didn't do it,_ he wanted to scream at the dark, grieving angel. _I didn't do it! Stop it!_ His voice didn't work.

His legs did. He ran. Ran from the singing. Ran from the white-winged angels who came to collect the kneeling souls around him. Ran, and ran, and ran, until he came to a doorway among ruined doorways.

It was black. Inky blackness, like an oil slick in a cartoon. Silence radiated from it, and the promise that the songs behind him would be banished forever.

He paused there. The songs were muted. The doorway was _dark_. But if he went there... he'd never feel that horrible guilt again. "I didn't do it," he whispered. "I didn't kill... whoever it was. I just fought for myself, just wanted to get a little something for myself."

He put his hand on the door, through the blackness. Found the doorknob. Pulled it open.

It was even blacker. Silence washed out over him. There was barely a thread of song left.

On the threshhold, he hesitated. _What's in there?_

Behind him, he heard the holy song of joy -- just a few notes. Behind him, he heard the grief of an angel.

It hurt too much. "I didn't do it. Shut up."

He stepped into the blackness and silence.

The door closed behind him, and the shadow swallowed it up.


	4. A Masochist Says...

* * *

Andrealphus lies on his assigned cot, in his assigned cell, and... does nothing. There are no windows. There is no dusk-Essence. Time has no meaning. Sometimes he remembers things. The battle. The secret techniques and attunements and abilities he's been hiding for ages, just so he'd survive. The pain as his Word was ripped away (again, again).

His first Word betrayed him, so he's not sorry he lost it.

He's beginning to wonder if his second Word was a trap, as well. The hungers, the urges, the needs... all have abated. Numbness is very like peace.

Eventually, it will wear off. He can remember the early time in Hell, after the numb shock wore off and the screaming started.

But his trial is first -- he vaguely assumes it must be Roman alphabetical, since when in Rome... He's quite sure that Dominic will get through it as quickly as possible, and go right to the sentencing.

Andrealphus doesn't expect to be alive long enough for the shock to wear off. And really, in the comforting cotton-wrapped numbness, that's fine.

*****

The trial is corporeal, in the hidden basements of Notre Dame. The remainder of the Seraphim Council is present, of course. (Eli's not there, and Andrealphus is vaguely disappointed. He's not Nybbas, to be insisting on a _plot_ , but really, where's the closure?) Dominic presides personally. The Angel of Mercy is appointed to speak on Andrealphus' behalf -- since he hasn't bothered to do so himself.

He cooperates. They don't have to bring witnesses to testify. They don't have to force him to speak. Dominic doesn't have to use his attunements to rummage about in the ex-Prince's memories.

It's very simple. Dominic asks a question. Andrealphus answers it. It's easy. Without a Word, the world is empty, and meaningless. It's all motions until his Forces are unraveled, and then he'll truly be at peace.

*****

The sentencing comes in record time. Mihr makes a lengthy plea for a painless and swift execution. Andrealphus watches her, not even bothering to think about what she'd be like in bed, and her words are feathers around him. He closes his eyes as she comes to the end of her speech.

There's a silence. It stretches.

Almost curious, Andrealphus opens his eyes again, to see that Dominic -- no, somewhere, she's gone to Dominique -- is looking straight at him. Long, Seraphic-style fingers tap against the judge's bench. When Andrealphus' attention is entirely riveted, she speaks, and her voice is like stained glass with the sun blazing through it. "Life imprisonment," she says.

"I beg you to reconsider," Mihr protests gently.

Dominique continues to catch Andrealphus' gaze with her own, her eyes the color of a stormy dawn. He tries to shake his head, feeling the cracks in his numbness. His shock begins to peel away, as the thought of centuries of time sinks into him. _Please_ , he tries to whisper. _Kill me._

As if she reads his mind, Dominique says, "No."


	5. Captive

* * *

She descends the stair, her gray robes sweeping along behind her. There is, however, no dust. She carries a book, sculpted leather cover and parchment pages, full of handwritten tales.

Eventually, she reaches the bottom chamber, and the cage within.

There are no guards here. Guards would be either unnecessary, or targets.

She sits on the stool in front of the cage. The being within stirs, her form sliding from crystal spider, to rotting dragon, to something with not enough skin and too many limbs and eyes.

The woman merely smiles. She opens the book, and reads. It's a tale about a child. A coming of age. Learning when the monsters under the bed are false, and when a child should listen to warnings.

The creature in the cage tries to scream, to roar, to drown out the words -- but this is in the Marches, and it is the woman with the book who holds the power here.

Finally, the story is done. The woman looks at the caged monster, who throws herself at the bars, reaching with her claws to rend and tear, gnashing her fangs and gibbering her hate.

The woman holds the book to her chest with both arms, and smiles through tears. "I'll be back tomorrow, my love," she promises, and then goes up the stairs.

Behind her, Beleth screams in rage, not caring that she cares.


	6. Survivors

* * *

* * *

They don't know what happened.

They don't know where it happened.

They don't know who was responsible.

But every angel of Creation knew when it happened. Knew when the Rites died within them and their Hearts flickered dark for the first time . . . since creation itself.

Some fought the harder, slaughtering Hell's forces without regard for their own vessels and souls. Some fell to the ground in shock and horror, and were cut down by demons. No few took the first chance of celestial battle to seize their demon foes and seek oblivion.

She hadn't. She'd been with the medics of Flowers, and as a good Cherub should... she'd ran out and brought fighters' wounds into her own sturdy vessel, bringing herself back to the others for Songs of Healing. But her screams and tears had nothing to do with pain of the body.

It was a relief when a demon raised up his weapon and she threw herself between his target (a combatant, as she was not) and the blade. But just before that blade fell on her wounded vessel, just before the promised silence of Trauma... The demon screamed and could not stop screaming as he fled.

*****

There was a wake, of course. They gathered in the masterless Halls and drank and debauched, cooked and created... The Traumatized woke to tears and dancing, songs and keening. Laughter and immeasurable grief.

She danced, drumming her paws and spinning until she seemed snow-flecked flames. She yipped and howled. She went to the top of the Halls and wailed out her grief.

And eventually, most of them became hoarse. Israfel came to them, and whispered, _Give me your pain. Give me your grief. I will not let it be forgotten._

She had whispered back, _He redeemed me. He brought me out of shadows and lies and the mockeries of true creation. He showed me how to care, he showed me how to see the beauty and truth in the fakeries. His arms held me and I loved him more than I loved my life, and I could not take his wounds onto my self. I did not know. I would rather have died for him!_

Israfel had brushed their wings together, kissed her on the forehead, and gone on, singing their grief and confusion.

And now she could be silent. She could put her muzzle between her paws, close her eyes, and simply grieve.

*****

The relievers woke her. They came fluttering through, singing that there was joy, that there was a miracle, that there was a new Mercurian, redeemed Prince, brought into the light by Lightning in the middle of the Seraphim Council...

...and granted his old Word in Divine form within the hour.

Nybbas, Angel of the Media, Mercurian of Lightning.

She shuddered. She wanted to hate hearing that -- that her _old_ master could live, when her beloved Lord had died. She wanted to scream the unfairness...

But Israfel already knew the unfairness, and she sang it now. She had taken the pain onto herself in a way no Cherub -- not even one with Flowers' boon -- could do.

So there was nothing to do but think, and remember. To finally understand why Lightning would do what seemed cruelty to all those who had once had to serve in Hell.

*****

Fox-feet took her out of her little niche. Fox-jaws carried her Heart (as she had seen others take their Hearts, now and again, to gather in groups or take themselves to reasons to live). Fox-tail and Cherub-feathers drooped and dragged against the ground.

No one stopped her. It was not done, to stop the grieving from their choices, so long as no others were harmed. She knew that some turned aside, prayed for her, and thanked God that it was not them with their Hearts dulled and their lives meaningless.

Even in the Halls of Progress, no one quite dared stop her. No one quite dared question what she was doing there. No one looked over her shoulder as she pawed at the automated maps.

*****

_Busybusybusy. Soundtrack humming in his brain. Nybbas works, taking control of the media even as he has been restored to the Media. It's hard. He needs more manifestations, but the Council won't award them so soon, not even with Jean on his side, and apparently Marc, and for whatever reason **David**..._

_He clicks through newsfeeds, and wants to send orders to Servitors to **Take that, babe, spin it** , but he can't. Most of his Servitors are gone. Dead, imprisoned in Notre Dame (but he's got a few hopes...), or simply vanished into humanity as best they can._

_Relievers come and go, bringing him equipment or merely little gifts. Some bring hand-written letters, though he's told them to spread the word that he's too **busy** , babe, too busy to reply fast._

_One of them asks, "Why is there a Cherub outside? Do you know, boss?"_

_"A Cherub?" He blinks behind his Glasses. He doesn't have a clue. "A Sparkie, babe?"_

_The reliever shrugs. It's little, maybe doesn't know everyone. "She looks sad. She's got her Heart."_

_"Oh-kaaaaaay." That's weird. And, dammit, probably something he has to look at. He gets up, automatically sending his computers to a password-protected screensaver._

_He goes to the door, opens it, and looks down._

_The little fox-Cherub there, her Heart between her black paws, looks up. The grief in her eyes hits him first, harder than he's used to as an angel. His Soundtrack has latched onto someone singing **a capella** , a dirge of grief and pain so poignant that it takes him several seconds to realize it's coming through in **angelic** and not some human language._

_He fights his way past that, fingers digging into the door, and tries to focus on what's in front of his eyes instead of what's in his head. Why is she here? What does she want from him?_

_She clearly wants something, expects something..._

_The realization is like a flashback to redemption -- all the bad, painful parts, with only bittersweet tinges to leaven it._

_Habit tries to curl his mouth into a Grin, but Mercurian nature softens it to something wry and tired. "You too, huh?"_

_She just looks up at him, and he tries to remember her name (it'd be cheating to use his new resonance) -- right, right, that was it. "Naioth."_

_The little fox-Cherub ducks her head and picks up her Heart. It's oddly dull. She rears up onto her hind legs -- which doesn't put her more than chest-height on him -- and totters. Instinctively -- angel instincts, anyway -- he puts out a hand to catch her..._

_...and catches her Heart instead. Surprisingly, it doesn't burn him. Angel instincts prompt him to cup it to his chest, so he won't drop it. He stares as the Cherub drops onto all fours. Before he can say anything, ask any of the confused questions, she's leaning against his legs._

_**Wha-?** He blinks. **You Are My Home... Right, thanks, Soundtrack.**_

_Though he doesn't know much about being an angel, he knows a little. He sighs, and cradles the Heart in one hand while he sits down next to the other angel. "Hey, babe," he whispers, wrapping an arm over her and gently petting her fur. "Hey."_

_And even though it wastes time, he stays with her while she cries, both of them sitting in his open doorway._


	7. Empty

* * *

_Content Warning: Self-Harm_

* * *

* * *

It was easy for the angels to find her.

They just looked in the hospitals.

They just looked in the little rooms where the Jane Doe was kept, her veins filled with drugs, her wrists and ankles tethered to the bed.

Sometimes the drugs had been enough to keep her from knowing, from feeling, from screaming.

The angels signed for her, got her transfered. "To another hospital." (She heard that, because even now she can't turn off her mind and memory. If she could, maybe she could forget, but she can't.)

The angels don't bother with drugs. They have a Will-shackle instead.

"Don't kill yourself," they say. "Don't do anything to expend Essence."

They don't say not to claw at her face until her fingers are bloody. They don't say not to claw at her eyes until she is blind. They don't say not to scream until her throat is so raw it cannot voice her pain.

Sometimes one of them Sings healing, and the Song puts everything back the way it was.

All to do over again.

If she had her Word, she would be able to talk. She could find things out. She could ask questions. She could seduce with her webs of connections.

If she had her Word, she would be able to listen at the door, and tell when the guards spoke. She could hear footsteps and estimate who made them. She could count the seconds and find out the routines.

She doesn't have her Word. She screams.

"Hush," says the angel who enters her room.

She tries, but even the Will-shackle can't stop the whine in the back of her throat. She rocks instead, and claws at her face.

"Stop that," the angel says, pulling her hands away and Singing healing.

Now she can only claw at her arms and legs.

"You will sit," says the angel. "You will listen."

In a way, it's familiar, to have someone's voice compel her.

But it's not the right voice. She can remember far too well, and it's not the right voice. They won't give her the right voice, and he wouldn't want her anyway.

The door opens again, and for a moment, she hopes. She hopes it will be the right voice.

No. No, a woman.

Through the emptiness she recognizes who the woman is, and instead of a scream or whine, she cries out a low moan and tears her left arm open with her jagged, broken nails.

"Oh, stop that," says the angel, and irritably Sings healing again.

It's hideously unfair. She won't cry, she won't. She won't. She doesn't know why her face is wet. She won't.

The woman pinches the bridge of her nose. "You have any idea who she is?"

The angel shrugs. "A former Word-bound, presumed Lilim."

The woman sighs. "She'll have nothing to do with me any time soon. Give her some drugs and let her get some rest. I'll talk to your Archangel about this."

The angel opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. "Yes, ma'am." He pulls out his communicator and speaks into it. "Will you be seeing the next one now, ma'am?"

"No. I'll stay here until the drugs come."

She does. She stays, and another angel (or maybe a human patsy) comes with drugs and a needle, and the woman stays and watches the injection.

As Staciel's vision fades to blackness, she sees her Mother's eyes on her, and at the cusp between agony and oblivion, she thinks, _Dammit. Now I owe her._


	8. Lilith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the original post:  
>  _Gods, I hope this doesn't break the first one. Or come at a bad point in the cycle. Because I have another one in my head, but I got this darn LINE in my head, and I had to write the rest to fit around it._
> 
> _Mostly worksafe but not if you get someone non-understanding,_

* * *

* * *

She's brave, with Marc. They've known each other so long, and he's so fragile now. He asks her how she's doing, and she smiles and tells him as well as can be expected.

It's true. True enough at least, and possibly just true.

The first time they try out the bed (even now, her mind shies away from terms like _make love_ , and all that implies; even now, especially now), they've been kissing, slowly. It's almost like rediscovering each other, yet familiar. The bed is right there -- an advantage to her tiny hotel-room cell beneath Notre Dame -- and he slides onto it first.

They've done this a thousand times before. Their bodies know how to flow together, and she sits on his hips, looking down. His shirt buttons are there for her taking. His pants are pinned only by her body.

For once, though, it doesn't reassure her. It breaks the mood, confusing her with the sudden confusion. Her smile fades to blankness.

"Lilith?" His hands move from her upper arm and shoulder, brushing her hair away from her face.

She tries to shield, but knows the contact will help him pick up the fringes. She doesn't like feeling so . . . _lost_. She doesn't want him to feel it, and fret. So she summons up a look of concern -- a little false, but that's okay, that fits with her words. "But your wings will be cramped."

"Ah." Nuances in his tone and expression tell her that he doesn't believe that's her only reason, but he pushes himself up. She shifts with him (their bodies have moved together a thousand times), so she winds up sitting in his lap on the bed. He concentrates, and the pure white wings flare out behind him, then curve around the pair of them. She blows gently on a feather, reaches out and strokes one, and Marc growls and mock-savages her robe.

Still, when clothing has been shed, she is the one who draws him down, and their bodies do not know that move in the dance. It's inexpert, even if neither of them are anything less than graceful.

He props himself partly to one side, his weight entirely on one arm and none on the other. One wing drapes over the edge of the bed, while the other arches over them both. She can see the question in his eyes and the concern behind it.

She wishes she had an answer for him. Instead, she shrugs, and curves her mouth into a smile. "Oh, Marc. It's a nice, soft bed, not the hard ground covered with sticks and pebbles. And you're not going to squish me. Besides, I can see your wings this way."

He accepts that -- leaving her whatever secrets she chooses to keep, as they've done a thousand times -- and shifts to lie between her legs.

Still, he keeps his weight off her, for the most part, and holds himself up on his arms so she can, yes, watch his wings. And so he can watch her.

She doesn't mind that. Their bodies know each other well, and the whole point of the exercise is to _stop_ thinking, is it not?

They're very good together, and despite the unusual position, the rest of the world drops away. It makes her smile to see his wings beat so freely.

*****

She's cool, with Novalis. Silence and reserve are shields, keeping the Cherub from hugging her. They have tea together, because even though they've had their share of encounters now and then, she doesn't care to be fussed over as if she had no more responsibility than a baby.

"I'd always wondered, you know. You never seemed... like your heart was _really_ into it. I thought--" Novalis breaks off.

"That I was under Lucifer's spell?" She shrugs, keeping her shields up. "I suppose I might have been, half the time. He was a very powerful Balseraph, after all."

"Yes, yes, I suppose so. That must have been very difficult for you."

She sips her tea, noncommittally. "Sometimes."

"Well, at least he wasn't exerting himself, you know, at the end."

"He'd been taking me for granted for centuries. Ignoring me, even." She sets her tea cup down and reaches for the pot. Because it's Novalis, she says matter-of-factly, "You know what they say about Hell and women scorned."

It gives her satisfaction that she can freshen their tea in silence.

*****

With Jean, she is a mirror. It's not hard. He almost never shows up by himself, and his few questions are oblique, minor, and easily deflected if they touch on areas where she is uncertain of the answers. Mostly, he plays cards with her and whoever else is there.

It's an effective tactic. One of the few times he's there on his own, they play a chess variant, with cards. (It's the only way to randomize so that he doesn't predict checkmate after the first move, and tip his king if it's not in his favor.) After the messy middle-game has come and gone, she says, "You haven't asked me why I kept it a secret."

He gives her a calm, gray-eyed look. "It was more important to keep the secret than to reveal it, that someone might think better of you." He plays a card, and moves a piece according to the powers the card granted.

While she considers the board and the hand of cards she holds, he adds, "I'm impressed that you succeeded. I had not considered the possibility at all, in my analyses and predictions."

It makes her slant a little smile at him, across the table. It probably also disrupts her concentration enough to make her lose the game, but she doubts that he'd have considered winning so important that he'd lie about respect.

*****

She's flighty and casual, with Janus. They've had a stormy relationship now and again, and she doesn't view it as a threat when he swoops through her door, scoops her up, and swirls them around and around in circles. "Upside down!" he crows. "Turned the Council upside down! Turned everyone upside down! Turned _me_ upside down!"

His delight is contagious. She lets herself laugh, lets herself be amused as he carries her in semi-circles around her small room and generic twin-size bed, all the while babbling about how he's impressed and delighted and thrilled. He tells her a lot, including how he's trying to get Dominic to lighten up and change a little himself -- "the old pokerspine!" -- and she listens, nodding in all the right places.

When he leaves, he gives her an exuberant good-bye kiss (though they've not pitted the bed against his Ofanite enthusiasm), and she waves as he races through the echoing, gothic hall outside.

Then she closes the door and thinks of what he did not tell her.

She has a good notion of Heaven's notable dead, though no one has bothered to inform her, and she hasn't asked. It was easy, when she saw who did not visit her. (She had been too numb, with the entire Council, to make a good headcount.) Now she adds Khalid to the list, and supposes that it makes sense -- he had denied his Word's true scope for too long, and wouldn't have had enough self-preservation to hold back.

Yves avoids her (for which she is grateful; she thinks she would hate him if he showed up with enigma or worse, understanding). Blandine is busy in the Marches (and Janus is a little concerned about it). David and Michael are off getting drunk together, and she'd seen Michael before anyway. Jordi's around, but has little interest in a human, of course.

She makes no notes, of course. You can take the Princess out of Hell, but not the Hell-forged habits of gathering information, or keeping the important bits in her head.

*****

To Litheroy, she is a closed door. Literally.

She does not want to deal with his questions, and tells him only to go away. Only orders, only questions. His resonance will scrabble in vain at those, where he might see something in an answer.

She would consider answering Michael's questions -- though he's still too drunk to deal with those, and maybe that's just as well, with both Baal and Lucifer dead in one day, and Eli too, she thinks. (And Uriel gone, leaving Michael, David, and Gabriel as the first siblings.)

She would even consider answering Dominic's questions.

They are both Seraphim as well, but they can keep secrets.

If Litheroy found something in the deep uncertain silences of her soul, though, he wouldn't just tell her. He'd tell everyone.

It would be intolerable.

*****

To her daughters, she is Mother and traitor. She speaks with them (as Laurence has asked), escorted by unsettled angelic guards to the cells where the prisoned demons are kept.

Some listen. Some spit at her, though her shields stop the petty missiles. Some weep, locked in their personal Hell of misery.

Some, she can ask if they will wait here and listen, if she can have the Will-shackles removed.

The angelic guards are more unsettled to see her bargain, in Helltongue or corporeal languages, with captive Free Daughters who have been scraping at stones with their fingernails, or screaming as they pulled at their binding collars despite the pain.

She hears them, after they've escorted her back to her room and when they think the door is closed. One murmurs that they must tell the Lord Commander, lest the turncoat Princess betray Heaven as well with an army of Lilim.

It makes her laugh, until she stops herself. The shrill note that has crept in... it is undignified. She will not allow it.

*****

She finally sleeps, and finds that she is not even on Blandine's radar. The links between the cells of Notre Dame bind her dreamscape to equivalent rooms in the Marches side of the Tower of Dreams -- but she is a lucid dreamer, and she is not just a Soldier or sorcerer, nor even just a celestial. She looks out the door, at the hallways with Cherub guards before the dreamscape-rooms.

She smiles at the guard outside her own, and closes the door. She has a notion why Blandine might be distracted, and frankly, she doesn't want to deal with that little soap opera right now.

Instead, she overlays her will on the room, binding it against intrusion, setting alarms, and steps back into her true dreamscape. Then she lets go of lucidity, and allows REM sleep to send her images as it will.

*****

_To Lucifer, playing cards in her room, she was freedom, temptation, trophy, and death. This bothers neither of them_ , until she wakes, and lets the tears run down her face without a sound.

Perhaps she will not sleep for another year.

*****

When Michael and David finally show up, she's surprised. She'd seen Michael in the salle, of course, but he'd not even greeted her. To have them both arrive bearing crates and cases of _alcohol_...

"We got drunk enough," David tells her, setting a penultimate six-pack down on the tower of booze her table has become, while Michael grunts and heaves at a final crate outside the door.

"So Michael said," she responds absently, too boggled at the unexpected... _largesse_ , she supposes... to play the conversation as the wary chessgame she'd normally have thought it.

After a moment, she remembers to add, "When Laurence laid him on his hard backside in the salle."

"Did, did he." It's not quite a question. "Hm. Maybe the fledglings have something on their side after all."

The casual admission -- more, the casual admission of a _change of opinion_ \-- causes her to look over at him with even more surprise than she'd had when they showed up. He regards her levelly.

"I suppose you got drunk enough too, then," she tells him.

In the doorway, from behind the crate, Michael says, "We were so metaphorically plastered we could have metaphorically been an entire adobe village. Metaphorically."

While he sets the crate on her bed, she says, "You're _still_ metaphorically smashed, Seraph."

"Heaven-booze hasn't worked its way out of my system," he agrees.

"Or his?" She points at David.

The Malakite shrugs.

"Right. I have drunken Archangels in my room. Out, the both of you, before you hit the throwing up or hangover stages!"

Michael protests, laughing, that Heaven-booze doesn't _do_ that, but David nods to her and drags the elder Seraph out of the room, leaving her to contemplate the alcoholic beverage warehouse that has moved in with her.

That's how Laurence finds her. Boy Scout that he is, he helps her cart everything _out_ of her room again, and sends for Servitors to go store it.

*****

She doesn't have to be brave, with Laurence.

She doesn't have to be enthusiastic, or swept along in someone else's enthusiasm.

She doesn't have to stand her ground, or be firm, or even be self-sufficient lest what sufficiency she has be swept away in a rose-scented cloud of (s)mothering. She doesn't have to defend her secrets from being pawed through like an estate sale's wares.

Everything he thought she was has been shattered. Every reaction he has had to her was based on a lie, and the lie based on a bargain between her and God.

Perhaps he feels guilty, that he had hated her for that lie. Perhaps he wants to understand something he's only dimly equipped to grasp -- he has been honorable for God. She has been deceitful, for God's bargain.

Either way, he seeks her out, hesitant and uncertain. Angel, not to be driven away by other suitors for her attention, he learns to play cards. Egalitarian knight, he invites her to the salle with him.

She couldn't resist tying the favor 'round his arm, when he accepted Michael's inebriated challenge. She couldn't resist kissing his cheek when he won.

He is, perhaps, as much of a novelty to her as she is to him. Her image of him is nearly as battered as hers is to him -- his was the order to attack before the Champions had settled their score. She'd listened to the Songs that babbled in Lucifer's ears, of Princes dying, of traitors turning in the ranks -- even of demons turning on their comrades, begging for mercy and swearing it was a Geas, not their true will.

She'd seen the Geases. She'd known who held the tokens that controlled them, unlike the other Princes. But no one had asked her -- not Baal, not Asmodeus, not even Lucifer. And even she had not known to what purpose they would be activated.

The honorable Boy Scout of Heaven was learning all those years. Something in him was remembering and cataloging every dirty trick he ever saw or heard of. And for the final battle... he had been willing to break his vaunted honor on the anvil of necessity, and use them all. For once, he had seen a battlefield where winning was all that counted.

Lucifer had targeted him. The heart of the problem, the head of Heaven's organization, the vital point which would topple the resistance to Hell.

Lilith asked him once, over cards (with Marc and Jean), "Had you planned for bad luck?"

He'd caught the reference, if not with surety. "My death in the battle? Yes. If the Champions still fought, command would have devolved to Jean."

Jean murmured, "Since it would be expected to descend to David, making him the next target. He was, instead, the third in line for that responsibility."

Calmly, laying down a canasta book, Laurence added, "In the event of my destruction, David was instructed to kill Baal -- battle between Champions finished or not -- as a diversion, while Jean concentrated on the rest of Hell's forces."

Marc said, "There was an entire line, down through the lot of us. I was last, thank God."

"Who came after David?" she'd asked, curious.

Laurence had replied, "Jordi. Naturally, if Michael emerged victorious, he would have taken command at any point in the list, and I would have put Yves in the chain, but he requested otherwise. But after Jordi, Eli. Then Dominic, Khalid, Gabriel, Janus, Novalis, Zadkiel, and finally Marc. After that, if the situation was that desperate..."

"You'd have lost, and everyone kamikazed or gone to ground."

"Yes."

"Mm." _I'm glad I stopped it at the top of the list,_ she had not said, and played her own card.

If they'd been at dinner together, alone -- as they began to be -- she might have said it. He listens to her when she speaks, with all the alien non-comprehension of angels for humans, and all the drive of a Mercurian to try to understand anyway. It doesn't matter if it's inconsequentials, such as whether the wine goes _quite_ right with the fish, or deeper things, such as who has died.

When he tells her that Nybbas is redeemed, she's partly surprised -- and mostly surprised at herself, for not expecting that _one_ of them would take that slim shred of hope and make it work.

"He'll go insane if you don't give him his Word back, I wager. Don't dally."

Laurence chuckles, a sour note changing to wry amusement. "Jean threatened to shut down the Internet if the Council did not hear the Word-petition immediately after the redemption -- in the middle of Notre Dame's upper locus, that was. I suppose it was more efficient that way."

She smiles, and sips her wine as the waiter brings them dessert -- chocolate cake that isn't as black as Stygia's tunnels, but it might compete. When he's gone, she says, "And will the Council let him stretch his new-feathered wings? He'll be more effective as an Archangel."

"Have you been talking to Jean?" Laurence opens the engagement with his own slice of cake, his fork not a preferred weapon but still wielded with pinpoint accuracy.

His slightly peevish tone startles a giggle from her, and she sets down the wine in favor of water. "No. But I know the hyperactive little Prince, and I know what he can do if you give him a place to stand while he moves the world." A bite of cake. "He's a resource. Use him."

"Mm." Laurence's dark eyes are thoughtful -- first inwardly, tasting her words more than his dessert, and then outwardly, drinking her in more than his wine.

She steers the conversation toward shallower waters, asking if the redemption was easy, asking if there have been any others yet, suggesting an approach for some of her daughters.

***

Their next dinner goes more lightly, with ice cream and strawberries to end it, and no discussion of politics at all. They might be any human couple courting in fancy restaurants.

When they return to her quarters, he escorts her not like a prisoner -- he never has, even when arresting her so politely upon the battleground -- but like a guest and a lady, her hand tucked into the crook of his left arm. She pauses, and looks up at him. He's nearly impossible for her to read, too full of incoherent questions to even put a name on them as Needs.

She turns her head away, too tired to unravel what she can sense.

Unexpectedly, he reaches out with a finger and touches her face, and she looks back up at him, to see him confused and young. Lost, as she feels sometimes -- out of step with her old lover, swept away by enthusiasms. Empty and waiting, with only an ancient promise left.

"Must I be your reward?" he whispers, sounding so adrift. So earnest and wanting to understand.

"Oh, Laurence." She knows her smile twists, as she puts a hand to his chest and feels the beating of his heart, fast but calming. She opens her mouth, and words spin themselves out of dark, undefined emotions. "You nearly have white wings. Maybe I'm supposed to be your reward."

She can't face him after saying that. She turns and goes through her door, into a dark and empty room.

Her estates, her paintings, her sculptures... The art she crafted herself, the ones she hunted down carefully, the pieces she bought from geniuses. Her records and notes. Gone. If not destroyed in the lead-up to the final battle, then in the hands of angels even as her Tethers are now.

All she has are a small room by the grace of angels, and a promise that is so old it is worn thin in her mind, clung to only because it _is_ the oldest.

And who is to say whether the other end of it will be kept? Or kept in any way that she might ask?

Who is to say that the reward does not go to the intense young Virtue who made a greater sacrifice of everything he held dear, that he might defeat Hell? Lucifer's attention was all upon _him_ , when her naginata went into his back, and her Word blasted apart his Forces.

Who is to say that _that_ was not her purpose, all along? Is this why she does not find true comfort in Marc's arms? She was created to be small, and dark, full of grace -- and was it for an as yet uncreated military genius, who created his own vessels small and dark, full of grace?

If not, then who needs her now?

She had thought not being needed would free her in truth. She had thought that she could rest when her part of the bargain was done. She had dreamed of going places, seeing things, resting without worrying about the rest of the world and what it might want from her.

Perhaps she misses her things, her precious prizes, and that is why she sits on the bed and weeps.

After a moment, the door opens, spilling light into the darkness of her room, and Laurence slips in to sit behind her on the bed and put his hands on her shoulders. She leans back against him, because she does not have to be brave to spare him pain -- he is strong enough -- and she does not have to defend against him. He slips his arms around her, and she lets him, because it is as it was upon the battlefield. One choice, and the path becomes simple again.

Hesitantly, he kisses her neck, and she lets her breath out, tipping her head to the side to grant better access.

It's clear that -- Andrealphus' boasts to the contrary -- Laurence never _has_ done this before. That foreplay, climax, and everything in between have been encompassed within the dueling circle. That solitary habits have been on his knees, in prayer and praise.

Yet he tries. He knows some theory. And with his coat gone, her shirt half-unbuttoned, and his mouth over the pulse of her neck -- he begins to gain some confidence, even interest.

Her head on his shoulder (her hand on his leg), she smiles into the darkness. _Perhaps he, too, prefers to set the pace, and not be the one out of control._

He lifts his kiss from her throat, and she twists a little, sliding down and tugging him after.

The darkness is not absolute, with thin gleams around her door, and besides, they are both able to read more in the warmth of bodies and rustle of clothing than mortals see. He hesitates; she gives him the time to take the lead again.

She can feel his Word in his kiss, the urge to turn the meeting of mouths to a duel. He holds himself back _because_ his wings are nearly white on the undersides, and she wants to cry in gratitude. (And something in her despairs, that she is reduced to this. Something in her wonders if this is the promised reward, to be twisted into someone who is not proud, not secretive, not capricious. Something in her mourns.)

When he draws back, she puts her hand to his cheek, feeling the fine bones and his hair sifting against her fingers. And then, her thumb across his lips, feeling the confusion and worry that he had let the darkness mask.

It's unexpectedly sharp in her heart, as she turns the pain around to see the other side. _Or do You make Your servant break himself again, for the sake of Your pledge?_ Once she might have laughed bitterly, and let the shattered bits of soul fall where they might. Now she whispers, "Laurence... This isn't duty. Don't... not for duty."

He snorts softly, in a dark amusement of his own. "Duty would be more clear." He shakes his head a little, hair brushing against her fingers and wrist, skin brushing against her palm. "It's all right."

"But..." She hates how lost her voice sounds, lost and weak, and continues anyway. "But if you give up yourself, what's left?"

Even though she starts crying again, quiet gasps of air and undignified shudders in her jaw, she can still feel his face become a mask of surprise, of realization.

"Oh," he says, and moves again, lying on his side and gathering her against his chest.

She hasn't cried on anyone else... for centuries. Millennia. She only remembers doing it once... _But that was in another land, and besides, the lad is dead._ Her hands tighten in his shirt.

Laurence strokes her hair. "Ah, Lilith. Shhh, shhh. We... We'll figure it out in the morning."

For some reason, that makes her smile. She nods, and eventually, with his heartbeat against her ear, she does sleep.


	9. Pawns

* * *

* * *

When the drugs recede to a balance between consciousness and pain, the angels take her from her room and walk her through dim-lit halls. She thinks it's to execution, or interrogation, but when they finally choose a door -- guarded by five, _five_ patient, thick-boned angels -- it is the door of another cell, like her own.

She sees him first, her master, and something like relief momentarily drowns out even the agony of her lost Word. Then he looks up with no recognition in his eyes, and it's terror that overwhelms her.

But he barks out, "Come here," and she hopes it will be made better again. She stumbles forward, and only as her foot knocks something over does she realize the room is nearly covered with chess pieces, checker pieces, playing cards and tarot cards, go stones...

Her lord surges to his feet and -- not knocking over a single piece -- takes the steps necessary to seize her by the front of her blood-spattered hospital gown. His other hand goes up, to strike her for her carelessness, but then he pauses. Finally, comprehension flickers in his eyes. "Countess. Report."

" _My Word is gone,_ " she says, knowing that it's obvious and the speech torn from her throat anyway.

He looks down at her (and neither of them pay heed to the angels who watch through the open door). Her own realization sinks in, past the surface, through the roiling pain of raw Forces where a Word should be, and into her core which cannot stop thinking, hearing, and knowing.

She whispers, "We are all demoted." She had wanted to be his equal, yes. But not like this. Never like this, two pawns in angels' hands.

He looks at her for a long moment, and then looks down, at the piece she knocked over. "Send for..." He bends and rights the black pawn. Straightens and looks at her again.

"The drugs... Drugged me. I'm clumsy," she explains. The player must know the piece's capabilities, even if they are both pieces to someone else.

It's almost surprising when he crouches a little, to swing her into his arms. He carries her over the forest of pieces and cards, to a little clear spot by the single mattress along the wall. The mattress itself is nearly covered with unopened boxes -- chess sets, checkers, cards... More obscure games, or more childish ones. Novelty sets, too; a round container proclaims "Crazy Eights" and a dog's crimson face looks up from it.

"I'll need a queen piece -- green or black. Card acceptable."

He goes to adjust the pattern, she picks up the nearest sets of cards and pulls at the plastic. Her jagged nails catch in it, stripping it off, and the wrapping goes to join the rest inside a plastic wastebasket. (Red, she notices, and wonders why anyone would bother.) The angels close the door, finally, and leave them to it.

As he adjusts the pattern, laying out new cards and pieces, calling for the ones he wants -- and as she organizes the boxes, so she can see what's there, find what he asks for in only a moment -- she realizes they are twin pawns now.

She reports to him, around the pain, between the silences of placing pieces. He shows no response, but she knows they are twin pawns. She remembers, he remembers. Their minds are too distracted to gather information, but they will absorb it anyway.

Her hands find a deck of cards marked in green and purple, and Staciel says, "I've found a better green queen, master."

Asmodeus rises from the corner, and comes to take it into his hand, and use it.


	10. Gone to Graveyards

* * *

* * *

The Archangel of Flowers walks through the halls of the Seraphim Council building. There, in one well-guarded niche, is the artifact she seeks -- a Bridgestone of power and size that was unheard of before... Well, before. Before war, and blood, and death. Before betrayals and affirmations. Before screaming and tears.

She misses her dear friend, whose wanderings will forevermore be mystery.

But after war must come peace. Flowers will grow on the battlefields, someday.

It will take longer for some blighted lands to bloom, than for others.

Novalis pauses to let the guards recognize her. They step aside, and she stands before the portal. There are three sub-niches, each with a Trisagonist. She nods to them, and they open their voices, to sing _Holy! Holy! Holy!_

Not all Bridgestones must be activated with the Song of Songs. But then, not all will open a shaft of blinding light into a realm of darkness. She knows it will spear down through the circling Seraphim who sing the Trisaigon there, unceasingly bringing God's attention to the place furthest from Him.

As the portal forms before her, she pours herself down it, knowing she will be a golden glow within the beam. Knowing that all around will feel her aura of peace and love. Knowing that she is _alien_ there.

She steps out the other end, into what would be silence, save that the Trisagonists sing and bring the Symphony to touch what had been cacophony before. Around her, the white light dims and fades. Once, this had been Gehenna, and a fortress where the Prince of the War could feel secure.

There is another Bridgestone to Hades, and the Tethers of Freedom in Shal-Mari have their own orbiting Seraphim. But the headquarters of Flowers... will be in Gehenna. (And besides, Shal-Mari Tethers require one to go through Earth, and Israfel... Israfel and her grief are in Hades. It seems rude for Novalis to intrude if she does not have to.)

There are, naturally, guards at the other end, but they look outward. There is no need to defend from what comes down that Bridge. The Chief of her Thorns is waiting, black wings ruffled and molting in her stress.

Novalis wishes that she had not had to ratify the informal group. To grant violence even that foothold... But the Thorns are needed in Hell, as much as the balm. They walk a little ways, through halls that echo with pain and pride, and finally she says, "You wanted to report something, child?"

The Malakite nods. "Yes, Mother. We are... losing souls."

Novalis leans against a wall, and looks out the window-slit. "You don't just mean the ones who refuse to hear?"

"I'm not sure. We don't find anyone who kills them. We don't have to kill them ourselves when attacked. They just... vanish. At most, we've had reports of someone running down a dead-end first. Established residents and new-fated both seem to be affected."

"Is there any commonality? Could they be... reincarnating on their own, or even repenting and ascending to the Higher Heavens?" Oh, she does hope. Maybe when all the damned are redeemed, when all the Fallen and Hellborn are redeemed -- maybe then the Higher Heavens will open and they can be reunited with their loved ones.

They must live, up there. God would not let them die forever. He would pluck their themes in the Symphony and merely play them on a higher plane, just as an angel would have to return to Heaven if all its vessels were destroyed.

"Yes, Mother." Then her Thorn destroys her hopes, possibly without noticing. "The ones we have any data on seemed to be... cowardly. Cruel when they could manage it, but essentially cowards, as most fated are. Some... we discovered it first when we were pinning down one of the leaders of the warbands here, who was trying to make his followers so terrified of him that they would battle to the death, even against angels who wanted to help them."

As Novalis is silent, the Malakite continues to explain. "We had him cornered, split off from all but his second in command. They went down one of those fissures, and I took to the air above it, to keep them from flying up. The rest of us followed in the crevasse.

"But when we got to the dead end, there was no one there but the second in command -- and she was dying. All we got was that the leader had _gone_ somewhere, and stabbed her before he went. But even though we searched, all we found was cold stone. No sign of a Bridge or Song."

"Cold stone..." Novalis ponders. "The Lower Hells were said to be horribly cold."

Her Thorn shrugs. "We found no trace of a portal..."

Novalis sighs. "No trace of Kronos, either, and the Lower Hells are sealed behind him. Fate... Fate may know its own."

"That's a very disturbing theory, Mother."

She nods. "I know. Well, keep track of it, and try to see if you can figure out _how_ they're vanishing."

Her sharpest of Thorns salutes. "Yes, Mother."

Novalis smiles, holding the sadness inside.

If the Lower Hells are sealed... will the Higher Heavens be sealed likewise, until they can defeat Fate itself?


	11. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I was not happy with this at first. Then I wrote all the italic bits. I think I am happier._
> 
> _It does not directly answer questions. It may imply some answers. I take no responsibility for what implications other people get; I know what the implications are to me, but hey, I'm just writing this._

* * *

* * *

Jacob's Ladder -- the Tether between the Lower Heavens and Higher, by some lights. The path by which blessed souls left for something greater, when they were done with corporeal concerns. When they could let go.

By some stories, the Higher Heavens would open up once the Final Battle was won.

They hadn't.

_"Oh, Grandmother, why isn't she back with us? Why don't we **know**?"_

_Novalis held the Orphan of Protection. "Dear heart... I have no answers. I miss her, too."_

Angels gathered around the ladder, even Ofanim spending time in slow orbits, and watched. The Cherubim watched the most, of course. The Orphan Cherubim watched with the most hope. Elohim -- Orphaned or not -- avoided it. The Higher Heavens would open, or they would not, and in the meantime they could do nothing to salve the concentrated pain of those who had lost their Archangels.

_In Hell, a voice overlaid itself upon the Trisaigon. " **Why? Why did You take him? Where is our father, our lover, our master?** " The grief, the outrage and bafflement, all spun themselves out into the void where God's attention had so long been absent._

A small camera crew of relievers had set up, as well. With frequent invocations of "babe" in their piping voices, and a camera from Lightning, the team fluttered in, panned around the waiting angels (and some blessed), and found a clear spot to aim upward. The focus was the Ladder, and they took turns tending to it, with the most Cherubic of them having the longest turn.

And so the Descent (not Fall, never Fall again) was caught on film, and not just caught in hearts.

It was a speck. A glow. A form wrapped in white, that descended _from_ the Higher Heavens, rung by rung.

Ofanim hovered in shock, and shot in all directions to spread the news. The reliever on duty at the camera watched, decided it had a little time, and darted to get one of its fellows.

_"Boss, boss! The Jacob's Ladder! You gotta see! You gotta look!"_

_Nybbas sent his attention (dammit, no multi-tasking **yet** ) toward the camera, gritting out, "Slow down, babe, slow... Holy--" He choked off the epithet._

_The reliever hovered in front of him, little flame-circles marking its wings. " **Told** you."_

The Archangel of Lightning was the first there.

_Gabriel danced in its Cathedral, and sang prophecy. It did not need to go where the others went. It knew the promise. It swooped and spun and danced, and the words spun out in the crackle of flames._

The figure descended, and other Archangels gathered. (And yet, not all of Heaven knew. The word spread, but slowly. More slowly than the being moved.)

_They stood around her, Marc and Laurence, with their hair tawny and dark. She was the center to their yin and yang spiral, one of her hands in each of theirs. One of their arms around her waist to either side._

_"Won't you come?" Marc asked._

_"To Heaven?" Lilith whispered in return._

_"There is the Song of Projection," Laurence offered._

_She was silent for a moment, and then her hands went white-knuckled in theirs, with a grasp that would have bloodied mortal flesh. "No..."_

_"It's all right," Marc soothed, whispering in one ear. "You don't have to go."_

_Laurence murmured in the other, "We won't leave you."_

_She relaxed, just a little._

When the figure reached the bottom, she was dressed in white. Her seeming was an old woman, but tall, with hair wild around her shoulders. She smiled, and eyes widened. She walked through the ringed angels, and came to Yves -- whom no one had seen arrive. They embraced, like family.

_"Is she... God's Voice?" Laurence whispered, in that manifestation that was not beneath Notre Dame._

_"No," Litheroy said, his six eyes fixed upon her, entranced. "God's Voice is dead."_

"Sophia," Yves said, and the woman laughed without sound and ruffled his hair. He... grinned, sheepishly, and amended, "Sister."

_Michael lifted all his eyebrows, and folded his wings against his back. "Huh." Janus, spinning next to him, bumped the Seraph in the back. "Admit it, you don't have to be all snarky with him anymore, right? Right?"_

She nodded to him, a short bob of the head that made her eyes sparkle all the more. Then she looked around, at the angels and Archangels and blessed souls, and where eyes met, there was approval, or forgiveness, or understanding.

_David and Jordi, by coincidence next to each other, looked back. David nodded slowly. Jordi manifested throats and crouched, acknowledging her authority with good -- if animal -- grace. Behind them, Dominic's hood fell back, and he whispered something to himself._

Sophia looked back to her brother, and patted him on the cheek. Then (and oh, there was sorrow in her eyes), she gathered her white skirts around her and turned to go back to the Ladder.

_Blandine watched her go, face wet with tears._

But the hem of her dress was held in the sharp teeth of a Cherub cub, who looked up at her with eyes too full of grief for even her understanding to ease.

_Novalis started to go forward, but hesitated._

Sophia bent, and picked up the angel, nuzzling into its fur. She walked to the ladder, carrying it (and had it not been a huge tiger before?).

She did not set the Cherub down, but began to climb with her free hand.

_Storm-gray eyes narrowed for a moment, in thought. Then Jean smiled, **smirked** , looking with one hand at its chin and the other tapping a speculative finger on its elbow._

The Seraphim rose around her, singing. _Holy! Holy! Holy!_

And as Sophia and the Cherub passed beyond the point where even angels could not fly, the three largest Seraphim circled, their voices a pure, glorious harmony.

***

_When they finally landed, Michael picked up Dominic's cloak in his mouth. At the younger Seraph's glare, the Archangel of War flipped it over Dominic's head. While the Archangel of Judgment yanked the draping and hood back into place, Michael said, "Just wanted to remind myself what you looked like with it off."_

_"Hmph," Dominic snorted, and went back to the Tribunal to continue his work._

_The relievers made sure to personally deliver the film to their boss._


	12. Aftermath of War

* * *

* * *

For most of his life... well, that's not true. For most of his life, he's been one of a family. They had a job, they had friends, they had lovers, and it was good.

But after it all broke, he had one goal. He would make it right. Himself. Personally. There was _prophecy_ about it, and that was his purpose. He would test himself against his brother, and win, and let what remained of his poor little brother die the way he'd want to die -- striving. Reaching for glory.

He was pretty upset when Laurence gave the orders ahead of time. The battle was supposed to be with _him_ in the thick of it... But still, he was the chosen one, he was the one who was going to _win_ this damned War and settle it. After he killed his brother (in the kindest, o the kindest, way he knew how), he would go settle things with his other brother -- the one who had started the madness. And then he'd find a way to kill _him_ once and for all.

And then it would be over, and he could hand it to the kid and Flowers to clean up, and maybe he'd be dead like old Raphael and Legion.

Which wouldn't be a bad way to go. His people would be sad, yeah, but they were tough. They'd hold a wake for him and float his memory to the Valhalla of the Higher Heavens. (There had to be one. It wouldn't be the Higher Heavens without. He was nearly sure he could remember something like that.)

He hadn't been planning that far ahead in the battle. He'd already made those plans, and he could ignore the seething chaos around the Champions. Baal was handicapped, angry and sure his people couldn't handle it.

(He had to give it to the kid; that was the damned best time to develop a dirty-fighting streak. It was priceless.)

But Baal was trying. He was dragging himself back into the mindset, knowing that _he_ was Hell's Champion, and if he won... Then dirty tricks would have fed his Word, and it'd be a nasty, nasty fight after that.

He was reaching, he was striving. Their battle was becoming a thing of glory, a thing very like corporeal love.

Then Baal's Word died within him, and he had enough time to realize it -- enough time to realize that he'd been robbed of his glory, and chance. Enough time to realize that he'd _failed_... and then Michael's axe took his head off.

He wouldn't have done it. He'd have aborted the strike. But they were so far into the give and take of the fight that he _hadn't noticed in time_.

So his brother was dead, and soul-dead, because they'd been the _Champions_. Their battle hadn't just been corporeal.

Baal gone, and Lucifer too, it turned out. And all for a little chit of a human who'd known just when to stick the knife in an unprotected back.

He couldn't blame her. Not when the Truth rang out through her words. God fought dirty too, sometimes.

But when he came back to his part of the Groves, he found himself wandering until he was near one of the cave-mouths that led underground.

So he kicked it a few times, until David came up.

"Yes, brother?" his once-Cherub brother said.

Michael paused a long while. He thought about the example he was going to set, and what people might think, and then he thought, _the hell with it._ So he said, "C'mon. Let's go to Earth. We're not drunk enough yet."

And as they went, he asked himself, _Will we ever be drunk enough, to look at what's happened and not weep?_

It was a tough question. He hoped the answer would be yes.


	13. Consequences

* * *

* * *

They still go to the salle to fence, and from time to time she asks him how he _does_ some move or other. So he shows her, and even stands next to her, making the minute adjustments to her stance that even a Superior has trouble with -- if it's not her Word involved.

She's a little shorter than he is. She fits against him, his right hand upon hers on the hilt, his left hand around her left shoulder. "There," he says. "That's the angle to keep the blade at, for that thrust."

"Ahhh." She looks up at him and smiles. He can't help his own answering grin; even Malakim delight in reflecting pleasure.

Though as he walks back to his side of the fencing strip, he notices that one of the others there to practice is -- as expected -- a Servitor of his. What is not expected is the expression of surprise, and the way the other angel drops his eyes and stares fixedly at the floor.

The cascade of consequences of one unguarded moment is distracting enough that Lilith scores a touch upon him in the first few passes of their blades. As he acknowledges it, she leans on her sport-epee and regards him quizzically.

He would not turn that open curiosity into shuttered wariness, not for twice as many complications as he sees in his future. He takes the step across and touches his forehead to hers. "Nothing urgent," he says, and smiles.

As he goes back to his side of the strip for the rest of the match, Laurence sees his Servitor leaving the salle, and his smile goes wry. He's got a feeling he's going to be feeling that way for some time to come, now.


	14. Policies

* * *

* * *

Jehovah-jireh did not pace, in the waiting room before her Archangel's office. She was early. She had no need for impatience. For once, she had not even had to break a date with her beloved...

Not that her Archangel had ever been so petty as to deliberately schedule a meeting to conflict with her social life -- but bad luck happened now and then, and 'Jireh had a feeling some of her superior officers had wanted to express their displeasure with her relationship. 

Servitors of the Sword should not be dating humans. Even Saints who were actually _older_ than themselves.

'Jireh didn't find it fair -- but she was a blade of the Lord. To stop being that, to seek some other "more understanding" Archangel, would be as unthinkable as giving up Coinneach.

So she stood patiently, white wings in the "at ease" position, early because the note had been hand-signed by her Archangel and had only given a date, a time, and the curt words, "See me at my office."

Finally, the door opened. 'Jireh watched as an Elohite walked out, blade glittering at its hip. It blinked at her, silver-eyed, opened its mouth, then smiled and shook its head. "The Lord Commander will see you now," it said. Then it left, with an odd, almost dancing step.

Puzzled, she entered and closed the door behind her, then knelt before her Archangel's desk. "Sir."

"Rise, Jehovah-jireh. Be at ease, if you will."

She stood, and took the "parade rest" stance of the Earthly military she'd last held a Role in -- adding a fold to her wings to put them precisely at right angles with her spine. "Yes, sir."

Laurence sat behind the desk, looking both amused (and that was a novel enough sight to lift the heart) and tired. "Jehovah-jireh... Refresh my mind. You are still... romantically involved with a Saint?"

_Oh._ Her heart sank a little, but she did not let it make her wings or shoulders droop. "Yes, sir. Coinneach, whose major affiliation is with War, sir."

"Mm." Laurence poked at a paper on his desk, with one finger. "And he is over 200 years old?"

That was a new sort of question. 'Jireh blinked. "Yes, sir. He's older than I am."

"And, presumably, he's had plenty of time and opportunity to form relationships with other humans or blessed?"

That was an entirely new question. Usually those words came in someone's lecture, about distracting humans from natural relations with their own kind, and how even an angel might not be able to fulfill the needs of even a blessed soul. Or Saint. "I... I would presume so, sir. It hasn't been a topic of conversation, er, much." She didn't quite flush at a memory of him saying, _But it's **you** I want to see happy. It's **you** I want to hold._ "He had Earthly relationships when he was mortal, sir."

"I see. Well." Laurence nodded and stood, walking around his desk. "Would you please hand me your blade?"

Only his expression -- still tiredly amused -- kept her from terrified thoughts of demotion. Still, her hands were unsteady as she unstrapped her belt and went to one knee to present it to him.

He took the blade and drew it.

"Now. I believe that you distinguished yourself, some three hundred and five years back, at a Tether-operation?"

"Y-yes, sir?" She had been given a Song for it.

Laurence touched the tip of her blade to her shoulder. "Jehovah-jireh, you are Vassel of the Sword."

It was a good thing she was kneeling, or she might have fallen over from the shock. As she tried to make her voice work, her Archangel continued, "And fifty-four years ago, you led a mixed team against one of Saminga's Word-bound and the human necromancers, freeing over two dozen innocents and personally holding off the Word-bound until one of your team invoked the Archangel of Creation?"

At least the Distinction helped keep her from stammering again. "Yes, sir." That had earned her a personal "good job" and extra lessons.

The tip of her sword touched her other shoulder. "Jehovah-jireh, you are Friend of the Lord's Troops."

The Distinction let her whisper, this time, "Thank you, my Lord Commander."

"Mm. And in the Final Battle, I believe that you and your partner Coinneach distinguished yourselves sufficiently that Michael gave the Saint his second Distinction?"

She nodded, mutely, not daring to hope.

In succession, the tip of her blade pressed against both her shoulders. "Jehovah-jireh, you are a Master of the Armies of God. Rise. Take back your sword, and use your skills and talents wisely."

As she stood -- slowly, so that she wouldn't fall over -- he sheathed her blade and presented it back to her. She clutched it to her chest, wide-eyed. "Sir... My Lord Commander. _Thank_ you!"

He put his hand on her shoulder. "You have served well, 'Jireh. Well, and patiently, in the face of a policy I begin to fear I saw as black and white when there are shades of gray. Coinneach is not an angel-dazzled mortal. I hope you two will be happy. Now -- I believe there will be someone waiting outside my door. Would you send it in, please?"

" _Yes_ , sir!" She saluted, stepped back and bowed, and had to force herself not to keep bowing all the way to the door.

Indeed, there was a Kyriotate, trying not to be nervous. 'Jireh opened her mouth to say something reassuring, closed it again, grinned, and instead only said, "He will see you now."

As she walked away, to tell Coinneach the good news, she felt as if her feet didn't even touch the ground. It was like dancing.


	15. 30 Second Summaries I

* * *

_(Included are some summaries of other people's fic, back in the days of Livejournal.)_

* * *

**Interesting Times**  
BAAL and MICHAEL: Yay! Final Battle! We Roxxors!  
LAURENCE: Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it... Okay, kill all the other Princes.  
LUCIFER: Die, annoying pest.  
LILITH: *kills Lucifer*  
PRINCES: WTF? OMG my WORD!  
LAURENCE: "..."  
LILITH: I'm secret agent girl. God said I'd be rewarded. Now what?  
SERAPHIM: OMG Truth!  
LAURENCE: _"..."_ . o O (She's kinda cute.)  


**Interesting Times - Another Angle**  
NYBBAS: Augh! Run! My Word! I need a drink.  
DAVID: You're drunk enough.  
NYBBAS: I cannot possibly be drunk enough for this.  
DAVID: Jean's waiting to redeem you. C'mon.  
NYBBAS: _"..."_  


**Interesting Times: Driven** by siadea  
DOMINIC: Busy, busy, busy.  
JANUS: You're boring.  
DOMINC: I'm busy. Go away.  
JANUS: But I won't stay away.  
DOMINIC: _"..."_  


**Interesting Times - A Nameless Aftermath**  
HELLSWORN: Nyah, nyah, no more Hell, I win, I wi... oh, crud.  
ISRAFEL: _We miss Eli! *sob*_  
HELLSWORN: I had no part in killing him! Stop making me feel guilty.  


**Interesting Times - A Masochist Says...**  
ANDREALPHUS: Trial. Death sentence. Kewl.  
DOMINIC: No.  
ANDREALPUS: _"****!"_  


**Interesting Times - Captive**  
BLANDINE: *reads a story*  
BELETH: *froth*  
BLANDINE: I love you, honey.  


**Interesting Times - Survivors**  
ELI: *dies*  
CREATIONERS: _Noooooooooo!_  
NYBBAS: *redeems*  
EX-MEDIA CHERUB W/HEART: Nybbas, I choose you.  
NYBBAS: "..."  


**Interesting Times - Empty**  
STACIEL: My Word is gone, the angels have me, life sucks.  
LILITH: You need good drugs.  
STACIEL: Yea-, no, wai- damn, now I owe her.  


**Interesting Times: Three-dimensional Blindfolded Chess** by siadea  
JUDGE-SERAPH: Here, Azzie, Azzie, Azzie. Here, Djinn...  
ASMODEUS: Pass me a rook. No, that one.  
JUDGE-SERAPH: Boss, I found him and he's making me play giant weird chess. HELP!  


**Interesting Times: The Shaggy Dog** by patpandahat  
KOBAL: Hey, Haa-chan, what's wrong.  
HAAGENTI: Not hungry. Stomach hurts.  
KOBAL: Yeah, thought so. Never trust a woman.  


**Interesting Times - Pawns**  
STACIEL: Boss! Life sucks!  
ASMODEUS: Get me a queen figure from that pile.  
STACIEL: ...yes, Boss.  


**Intersting Times: Hollow's Eve** by melpomenes_mask  
ELDER-BETHARAN: This sucks. It's a good thing I don't care.  


**Interesting Times: Le Roi Est Mort** by melpomenes_mask  
MALAKITE: I hate this place. I'm gonna be sick. OMG what is _that?_  
SALATHIEL: Oh, this is funny. Help.  
MALAKITE: Redemption bait in Game-cells. I hate demons.  


**Interesting Times: ...Lama Sabachthani?** by genchaos _(And I'll use her own backscroll, I think... Edited because there is a five year old next to me. ((THIS IS NOT MINE BUT HOPEFULLY SHE WON'T MIND))_  
TATIEL: Eliiii, oh Eliiiii, come back down the Ladder nooowww...  
GIRI: Need help?  
TATIEL: Yeah. It's not working.  
GIRI: Don't worry, I've had a [crappy] fewdays too.  
TATIEL: Word.  


**Interesting Times: Vive Le Roi** by melpomenes_mask  
MALAKITE: You're redemption bait and I think I like you.  
SALATHIEL: I don't wanna be a Flower.  
NOVALIS: That's okay, I'll get Janus. You'll like him.  
SALATHIEL: I hope so.  
MALAKITE: "..." . o O (Me too.)  


**Interesting Times - Gone to Graveyards**  
NOVALIS: This is Hell and I run it now. What a dump.  
CHIEF OF THORNS: Souls are getting into mysterious doorways and vanishing, Mom.  
NOVALIS: We didn't kill Kronos, did we? ...dammit.  


**Interesting Times - Hope**  
PISTIS SOPHIA: *comes down Jacob's Ladder*  
EVERYONE ELSE: _OMG!_  
YVES: Hey, sis.  
PISTIS SOPHIA: ^_^ <3 <3 <3 ^_^  
CHERUB OF CREATION: I'm too sad. Life sucks. Take me with you.  
PISTIS SOPHIA: *does*  
JEAN: *smirks and doesn't say why*  
(MICHAEL: You look good with the cloak off, Dominic.  
DOMINC: "...")  


**Interesting Times - Aftermath of War**  
MICHAEL: I am not drunk enough for this.  
DAVID: Me either.  


**Interesting Times - Lilith**  
LILITH: I have no idea what to do with myself anymore.  
LAURENCE: Me either.  
LILITH: I'm lonely.  
LAURENCE: You're very cute, too.  


**Interesting Times: Plus Ca Change** by prophet_marcus  
NOVALIS: You doing okay?  
HUNTER: I guess. Point me at some demons.  


**Interesting Times - Consequences**  
LAURENCE: She's _really_ cute.  
SWORDIE: OMG the Boss is _dating_.  
LAURENCE: My life just got more complicated again.  


**Interesting Times - Policies**  
LAURENCE: So, you're still dating a Saint?  
MERCURIAN: ...yeah.  
LAURENCE: Okay. Have some overdue promotions anyway.  
MERCURIAN: _*squee*_


	16. Paladins and Diplomats

* * *

* * *

Laurence walks through the upper reaches of Notre Dame, a silent shadow among other silent shadows. There are numerous vast views from here, up where only fictional bell-ringers might frequently go, and he is looking for the absolute best one.

When he hears quiet voices, it is understandable that his first emotion is the unfamiliar _jealousy_.

Someone else thought of this first.

Shadow among shadows, he finishes rounding a support. As expected, in the starlight... Marc and Lilith. She's facing toward Marc (away from where Laurence stands), and Marc still has that eye-patch affectation (putting Laurence closer to his blind spot than not). There seems to be finger-nibbling going on, and quiet giggles. Laurence watches as Marc draws their interlaced hands out, kissing her wrist while his other hand does something at her sleeve.

"Well, now I know why all the buttons," Lilith purrs, rich and amused.

While Marc hums a mock-innocent agreement, Laurence blinks. While he cannot deny having once shared a bed with her, it had ended far more tamely than he had anticipated (to his relief), and even before... She'd made little noises, assent, consent, pleasure -- but nothing like that throaty, seductive voice.

She's a puzzle. Her behavior shifts. Still, he discards the thought that she is trying to play them all in Hellgames. He cannot read her honor, most of the time, but ever since the Seraphim heard the Truth of her Bargain he has felt _sure_ of her. Her behavior feels _human_ , not Hellish.

He wants to understand anyway. And so he stays.

Unfortunately, he is a less adept hunter when he does not want to _kill_ what he stalks -- and perhaps his quarry is more skittish than most. Marc has somehow unfastened her sleeve up to her elbow when she turns her head a little, pushing hair out of her eyes. She stiffens, then, and looks straight at Laurence. After the barest moment to notice her change of attention, so does Marc.

Laurence grimaces a little and leans forward, into the starlight. His personal shields are lowered enough that he's sure Marc will catch his embarrassment, rue for interrupting, and confusion. Then the suave Mercurian will say something to let the uncertain Malakite apologize, or bow out, or whatever seems appropriate.

Indeed, Marc does start speaking ("Lovely evening, mm?"), but Laurence's attention turns that as meaningless as birdsong. The expression on Lilith's face is...

Startled, at first. Then recognition (with an instinctive relief, relaxing, that warmed his heart). And then the _mask_ settles across her features, and her eyes slide downward to where her free hand rests on her legs like a dead thing.

The body-language is the same as when they took her into custody and questioned her for her actions. Stillness, waiting, passivity. 

He blurs to her side with the resonance of Wheels, his knee bumping the low wall she and Marc sit on. He takes her free hand. "Lilith?"

Marc echos him, with equal concern -- a validation of his instincts, at least.

Her hand is slack in his, for a moment. She blinks at him, and he watches the mask slide away from her -- first her eyes, with surprise, with relief that spreads to her whole body, and then her hand tightens around his. She bends her head forward and her loose, long hair hides her from them both. He shoots a confused look to Marc, and sees that the Mercurian is moving closer to Lilith, holding her other hand.

The sharp look in Marc's eye, and the way he gives a tiny jerk of his chin, tells Laurence that he'd better mirror the position or he'll be looking forward to Heaven's Diplomat giving someone the rough edge of his silver tongue. So he does so, with haste that's only made graceful because he's an angel.

She only clutches his hand -- both their hands -- as her shoulders shake with some emotion.

"Shh, shh," Marc whispers. "It's all right."

And though she nods, a shudder of her dark hair in the starlight, she doesn't lift her head or slack her near-painful grip.

"We're here," Laurence says, and echos, "It's all right."

The noise she makes is somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and somehow, he makes the Mercurian addition of facts. _She thought... I would expect monogamy? That I would be angry? That I would leave? Or try to drive Marc away, or...?_

Every jealous deed of dishonor that he's ever resonated suddenly jostles in his mind, rubbing against the precepts of man and wife, human monogamy. He nearly winces as he sees the logic of assuming he would at least be _upset_ to come upon them as he had.

"I'm not jealous," he says, and will sort out what he does feel and think... later. Later, when he can find the knife-edge divisions between what is right for him and her, and wrong for angels and mortals, together or with their own kind. For now, it's enough to remember that Lilith has always walked outside rules and assumptions.

She finally tips her head back, with her own emotions wrapped into a wry, bitter smile and her eyes closed. It's as if she dare not turn a breath toward either one of them, give either one of them more or less of her attention.

Marc senses it too, clearly, as he leans against her. "We're angels, dear heart."

Laurence kisses her white knuckles, trying to understand the way her tension seems to ebb and flow. He uses his free hand to brush back her hair, that he might touch his lips to her pulse there.

She shivers, relaxing and tensing in other ways, and he's aware that Marc has leaned forward and is likely kissing her mouth.

Her pulse is fast, her hand tight upon his almost unto pain. Her muscles tighten with every breath, till she forces them to loosen again -- and the cycle starts again.

This time, as he moves back to merely kiss her hand, it's Marc who is confused and Laurence who knows the answer in his nature. It's Laurence who asks her, "Shall we take you back to your room?"

It's Laurence who secures her small, sad nod. It's a bittersweet victory.

She walks between them, unwilling to release either's arm until they pause before her door.

Laurence says, "Don't worry. We'll figure it out in the morning." (And he remembers, as he hopes she does, how he held her in the night, and when she woke -- there was breakfast, and admission of confusion, acceptance of both the emotions and the corporeal tensions.)

It seems to work. Lilith smiles, and it's a thin, sincere thing. "Thank you." She moves their hands, kissing his and then Marc's. "Good night?"

"Good night, dear heart," Marc replies, smiling and brushing his lips over her knuckles.

Laurence does the same, if with less confident assurance, and gains another smile from her.

She takes a breath, releases both of them, and takes the step to her door and then within, without looking back.

They wait, in silent agreement, hearing the small peeping of the device Jean brought, that makes coffee and tea. Waiting a bit longer, there are no other sounds, and after a time Laurence breathes a sigh of relief that they have not left her in a confusion that would lead to weeping. He backs away, and Marc follows.

They both know how keen Superior ears can be, and slip along the vaulted, secret halls for some time before Marc says, "You understood, and I didn't. What?"

Laurence folds his arms in front of himself, hands loose around his upper arms. "You realized first, she was worried she'd lose someone. But after... We outnumbered her. Tactically unsound."

Marc winces, and his own shields are letting through the concern and emotional mix that, after a heartbeat, Laurence translates as "I should have thought of that." The Mercurian says, "This is going to be complicated."

"Has Lilith ever been _simple_?" Laurence asks, finding a smile with the words.

"Well... No." And Marc should know.

"Right."

They walk along the halls, and part ways with nods, going to their respective duties -- but strangely, Laurence's heart feels lighter.


	17. Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by genchaos' fic (and character).

* * *

* * *

Another shell-shocked angel walked out of his office, nearly bumping the doorframe with her ebony wings. She glanced over her shoulder, and the naked gratitude there...

Laurence smiled for her, as the door closed.

How had so _many_ of his Servitors gotten romantically involved with humans? All right, objectively it was a scant few, but he'd had to spend two days arranging appointments -- not to mention personally reviewing their records and determining which rewards they'd been stinted on for their disobedience to the ethos of the Sword.

It has been right, for him to follow Lilith into her room. It had been right, to hold her.

To kiss her.

It had felt as right as his oaths against evil.

And she was human. He could remember that with one breath and forget it with the next. She was an immortal, ancient as any other celestial -- except she wasn't any other celestial. She wasn't just a wingless Mercurian.

The next step of logic was that there were Saints around who were older than _Laurence_. He had a feeling that Jordi's Savannah might house some Neanderthals -- not that Jordi would say one way or the other, even if he asked.

If there were humans who had stayed that long, without ascending to the Higher Heavens... Was it angels holding them there? That would be bad. But if they were there for some other reason, as Saints were... Was it not wrong to deny companionship _to the human soul_? They'd been around long enough, lived a full mortal life (hopefully). They should know if what they wanted from a companion could be found in a being who was not human...

It was a tangle. A Gordian knot. The Archangel of the Sword had only the traditional result.

If the relationship was with someone old enough to know his or her own heart -- and he had a tiny number he was dubious on -- then he should extend his Servitors and their lovers the same respect as he would extend Lilith.

Even the handful whose affairs were with more modern souls... He would have to speak with them on the coming day. Perhaps Mercurians and Elohim could determine whether the relationship was harmful to the soul or not. And if not, then... it wasn't disturbing the destiny of a _living_ human.

The logic hurt. He'd spent so long believing angels and humans had to keep their paths separate. And now...

Laurence sighed, and sat down. No more appointments today. He could organize some of these folders...

As he put some of them back into his desk, he saw the Wounded folder in a corner. He winced. It was past time he looked into that. The dead, he had reviewed, and spoken for in the ceremonies. Those whose damage was too great for other healers, he had gone to, and aided as he could.

Those whose wounds were not urgent -- a few Forces lost here, perhaps a dissonant note there... Past time. His own confusions and concerns had kept him from that task of review, focusing on the more urgent clean-up matters on Earth... and the matter of Lilith, which was of indistinct priority.

The records were ordered by name, but a summary in the back had the actual damage. He got out paper and ink, and -- in something of an apology -- pulled one of his own feathers to fashion the quill.

First, the list of names of those who held dissonance and dissonance alone. Cherubim, mostly, and some Malakim whose oaths had conflicted on the battlefield. A few Ofanim. A painful number of Elohim. Mercurians who had found a Hellsworn instead of a demon, Kyriotates who had taken animal hosts in order to continue the battle on Earth... An even dozen of Seraphim; he flipped to the names, and found that they'd all internalized what he'd said quietly to his people: "If never before, and never again -- this is the battle where winning is everything, and the ends justify the means." They'd found themselves against enemies who knew their nature, and used some remnant of the old, old trick, "There's someone behind you."

He wanted to cry, and laugh, and praise them -- and wrote the scrolls that would bring them into his office so he could thank them for their bravery. Thank them for chipping the blades of their souls, and killing enemies with the jagged edges.

Other scrolls were to commanders and officers, to ask how many of the dissonant had been placed on Earth to cleanse themselves in Tethers. Ideally, that would all be dealt with by now, but not all Tethers could take the influx that there would have been... He'd extended his Tethers to those in some authority in Creation and Faith, as a priority for the Orphaned. (Children and Protection as well, but Novalis seemed to have the majority of them.)

He turned to the list of Discordant. Fewer of those. No Seraphim. A longer list of Cherubim. Three Ofanim only. A half-dozen Malakim, and he frowned slightly and reviewed their oaths. Again, a painful number of Elohim; emotions had run high that day. More Kyriotates -- how many of his _had_ carried a small creature into battle with them, anyway? He hadn't suggested the tactic... Some Mercurians; there had been more Hellsworn than they'd counted on.

And a Bright Lilim.

Laurence blinked, and flipped through pages to find the apparently non-existent report on _why_ his unusual Bright was Discordant. All right, if there was no report, what would logic say...

"Ah," he said out loud, in bitter realization. "The Geases." He knew full well that a dark Lilim would be harmed by the backlash of a geas-hook not compelling the victim. It was simply hard to apply that _tactic_ to one of his own angels, for all that he'd known it was possible when he assigned the task to the few Lilim of Heaven.

He wrote that scroll first, and set it aside. When he had finished with the others, giving them times and dates to report, that their Discord might be removed, he took up the one for his Bright, and tucked the quill into it. The others had made choices -- both brave ones, inferring his will, or accidental ones. But only this angel had taken dissonance from his direct orders.

As he gathered the message scrolls together and sent for reliever messengers to bear them, Laurence wondered if the Bright had already heard the rumors. And what he might ask.

And Laurence wondered what he would reply.


	18. Drabble: Strange Bedfellows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This is a flashback._

* * *

* * *

The armies are massing, and soon, within the day...

Dominic pores over reports. Should offer an Outcast a chance to return? Would it tip the balance? Or would a valuable triad be lost to unexpected hostilities?

God help him, he is staring at the old records of the Watchers.

He jerks his gaze away as someone comes into his office. Marc, bearing coffee.

Marc puts the coffee down. He pulls Dominic's hood from his head, gently. "You're working too hard," he says.

There must be a trade, but Dominic can't see it. Still, he wraps his wings around the Mercurian.


	19. Reflections

* * *

* * *

Nybbas stands in the secret meeting chamber of Notre Dame, and reflects that at least he doesn't have to worry about his wings manifesting feathers. (He hates them. He hates how they look. He hates how they feel against his back. It's not _him_. He doesn't mind how they look on Marc -- or other Mercurians -- or how they feel if they belong to someone else. But he's got a special vessel (thank you, Jean), with white leather wings, just so he can keep his seeming feather-free.)

Next to him is his Seraph advocate, one of Trade's ancient Servitors who speaks for him in Council (he's busy, so busy, and they haven't made him a Superior again yet). "I detest having Council meetings down here," she mutters.

"Eh, babe?" he responds, half-listening to her and half paying attention to a newsfeed that overlays itself on his vision. (Thank you, Jean, for this forbidden neural interface that makes it easier to multitask. Thank you, Jean, for this chording keyboard that hangs from his belt where his left hand can silently send commands.)

(Thank you, Jean, for understanding, if only a little.)

"I can't see who have their eyes closed, or when they go still," his Seraph advocate complains. "I don't know who's multitasking, and we don't have the comm-crystals on our desks, so I can't even message anyone. _This_ thing is _not_ the same." She shakes her text-messaging mobile phone.

Nybbas smirks, and is about to answer -- when he sees Lilith.

_And now what would you have me do, I ask you please..._

The meeting is to discuss the disposition of demons upon Earth, tangentially including the captives in Notre Dame. The tangent is why he's here. He's been refusing to think about who else might have interests in the matter. Marc would call him an Egyptian Prince of De Nile, and he'd laugh ( _cry_ ) about that if only his Soundtrack weren't playing so loud.

_How low does one heart go?_

"'Scuse, babe," he manages to mutter to his advocate, and starts to walk forward.

Even his Soundtrack ( _Forgive me all my blindnesses, my weaknesses and unkindnesses_ ) can't drown out the flashbacks. The way his Word peeled away from him. The imagined images of the Lightbringer who gave him so much, an empty corpse...

Beds and bargains. Lucifer's blood on the hands that had touched him.

_And will you break my will?_

She's talking with someone. Novalis. It barely registers. When Laurence appears at Lilith's elbow, running interference, it barely registers.

_I wait to hear_

Nybbas cannot even parse the expression on Lilith's face as she turns away and takes a few steps from where the two Archangels speak quietly. He plants himself in front of her, and sees...

_to see your sign_

...her eyes brighten as she recognizes him. She begins to smile, and then it's only one of her secret quirks of the lip. "Hello, Nybbas," she says, her voice neutral and calm.

_Would I obey?_

"Lilith." Traitor. Lover. Killer. Beautiful. Destroyer. Human. His voice strangles inside him, and only the Word-need to communicate lets him force it out. " _Why?_ "

She parts her lips, then closes them again, looking at him with those eyes that see and never reveal. Her little secret smile is wry, familiar from any number of times when she predicted things would turn out messy.

_The one who survives by making the lives of others worthwhile._

Her voice is very near what Soundtrack is feeding him. Sweet, poignant. "You need to hate someone."

_She's seeing too clearly what she can't be..._

He tries to say something else, to deny it -- to deny the hook, automatic reflex.

"All right," she says, with her posture straight, her hands folded over each other at her hips. He has a moment to wonder what her body-language means, what that blank mask of an expression is (her armor was never so plain, her masks never so empty), and then she has inclined her head in acknowledgment and turned again, walking.

_She says I need not to need..._

His hand clenches -- the right. Not the left, that is wrapped around his keyboard like a lifeline. He feels muscles tensing in slow motion, leaning for the step.

_...or else a love with intuition..._

Laurence sweeps past him, with a dark glowering look that makes him flinch in demonic reflexes. He flows to Lilith's side even as he manifests his wings and shakes them into a wall between her and anyone behind them.

_Someone who reaches out to my weakness and won't let go._

The song continues as he watches them go from the room. Lilith's head is on the Malakite's shoulder.

_She carries the act so convincingly; the fact is sometimes she believes it..._

They turn a corner. Gone. Soundtrack doesn't fade, and Nybbas tries to run his fingers through his hair and is clenching them there instead.

_...that she can be happy the way things are, be happy with the things she's done._

Marc appears from nowhere, it feels like, and puts a hand on Nybbas' shoulder. "My dear. Are you all right?"

_Reach out. Hold back. But where is safety?_

"No." His voice is small and miserable, and he hates it.

_Where is the one who can change me?_

*****

 _What was he thinking? What was he saying?_ Laurence puts his hand over Lilith's, where it's on his arm. It's not like her to _lean_ on him so. It's subtle, but it's not just the closeness when he usually escorts her somewhere.

She wouldn't say what she'd said, what that redeemed Princeling had said to her. The look of pain and fury, the emotions of rage and grief -- Laurence had read them off Nybbas. And read nothing in Lilith's pose or tone. (Using resonance on her when she shielded was like trying to resonate a black mirror of ice.)

It bothers him. She hadn't been comfortable, invited to the Council meeting. But she'd agreed to come.

And now she was going back to her room. Laurence doesn't need Elohite resonance to know his own guilt. He should have been closer, protected her better. Not been distracted from fending off Novalis in what even he could recognize as a stressed and grouchy mood.

He hadn't thought a Mercurian might be a danger to her.

To his sigh, she finally says, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" he asks.

"I... don't know. I feel like I should feel something. And inside, I'm just... thinking."

"Elohim do that," he points out.

"I suppose."

She's quiet the rest of the way, around the curve, down the hall.

He pauses before her room, as they tend to do, negotiating whether more company is desired, or if they have things to do, or if it's just time for some time apart. She turns her head a little, but doesn't look up.

Laurence reaches out, tipping her chin up with a feather-light touch. It's all it takes, and she looks up. He smiles, just a little, and she smiles in return.

"I'm glad..." he starts, and isn't sure what the right words are as he strokes along her jaw. _...that you'll let me do that. That you obey, go along with it..._

"I know." Her voice and smile have _comfort_ in them. Amusement and warmth.

He inclines his head, acknowledging _touche_.

When he looks up, less than a heartbeat later, her expression is not any of those. She's gone pale and sallow, _dismayed_ , shaking her head slowly. She doesn't even see his shock, he thinks, as she backs away. As she whispers, "What am I doing?"

Laurence reaches out, but she darts back against the door, fumbling it open. (He had forgotten: one cannot catch Freedom unwilling.)

Her breath is an undercurrent of "no, no, no." She pauses with the door nearly shut. Her words tumble out like the notes of a broken music box. "I... don't follow me. Don't. I won't sit in the dark this time. I promise. Please don't follow me." And then the door is closed.

Though he stays, though he even goes closer to listen, he doesn't hear anything.

This time, he needs better instincts.

_**Marc? Can you come here? Lilith is... acting strange. I don't understand.** _

*****

It's a fortunate thing, for Marc, that he's a Superior (if a weakened one, for the nonce). Private messages, a very upset Nybbas to ply with coffee...

...an urgent summons from the Lord Commander.

Marc spares enough attention to reply, _Just a bit here._ He can manage the side-trip, he thinks. Nybbas is determined not to break down, with all the stubbornness one might expect from a Princeling. Probably Balseraphing himself, as the Media was always good at. Marc sometimes worries that Nybbas insulates himself from reality more than is healthy for an Archangel-to-be. But being functional now is a reasonable priority.

He sends his own message first: **_Jean? Laurence wants me somewhere. Nybbas needs someone. Available?_**

 _ **Yes,**_ comes the response, and the Elohite appears a few moments later. Out loud, he says, "Mm."

Nybbas is recovered enough to cock an eyebrow in sardonic curiosity. "Mm?"

"Mm," Jean affirms, deliberately unhelpful.

"I've got someone calling me urgently," Marc explains gently. "You be all right?"

" _Sure_ , babe." Nybbas' reply is almost automatic, but Marc can take it at surface value for the moment.

He gives the other Mercurian's shoulder a squeeze, nods a thanks to Jean, and heads for the exit. His cane taps against the stones, briskly, and mostly for show.

Only mostly. He hopes there's no misplaced sense of guilt in Nybbas' regard for him.

Up stairs, around corners, through the vaulted hallway, and to Lilith's door -- just one protective room among others that might contain Soldiers or Saints or simply humans who wanted to be somewhere safe.

Of course, those doors don't have a puzzled and perplexed Malakite standing in front of them, looking as if he'd been offered gold and given dried leaves.

Laurence looks over at Marc's approach. His shrug of bafflement is as eloquent as an entire explanation, and Marc wonders if perhaps the aura of the Media had left some faint aftereffects from earlier proximity. Silently, he pats Laurence's shoulder, and waves him off.

It's another explanation when the Malakite simply nods and goes, with only a backward glance of miserable confusion.

He waits. Nothing from behind Lilith's door.

Eventually, Marc knocks. "Lilith?"

The noise might have been a sigh. Or a sob. "Marc... Go away. You're too busy to be here. Go."

"Are you sure, dear heart?"

That is definitely a sigh. "Go, Marc. Go back to the Council meeting. Someone needs to speak for the Lilim."

"I think Laurence will do that." He allows himself a moment to marvel at the ease of that sentence, that would once have been unthinkable.

She takes a moment as well, perhaps to review the historical ironies, or perhaps to find some other argument. "He might need help. Please, Marc. You don't have the reserves to split down here."

It's annoyingly true. Facing down Vapula had _not_ been a wise choice.

Marc's known Lilith for quite long enough. From the first time he assumed she was a _Demon_ Princess and they discovered hitting her did, indeed, hurt him more than it hurt her -- to the present moment. And unlike Laurence, he knows when to cut his losses.

"All right, dear heart. But _call_ if you want anything. Please?"

She makes a muffled noise behind the door. It's probably agreement.

He sighs, ostentatiously, and walks away. His cane is less unnecessary, and its debonair tapping is slower.

*****

 _It is by caffeine alone that we set our minds in motion,_ Jean muses, watching his vastly unique Servitor-in-name. Nybbas was steadying, letting the vessel's reaction to the drink distract him from recent... Well, not recent shocks. Recent events rubbing his nose in the shock. His right hand holds the coffee cup. His left is back to chording at his belt-keyboard, keeping him in touch with his work.

 _I win, Vapula,_ Jean adds, silently. _You did not kill Marc. You did not destroy this one. I have him. I have destroyed you, and taken that which you thought was yours and brought it into light and truth._

He'd lost other friends. He'd lost irritants who were annoying -- but not so much they deserved to die. But this battle, he'd won.

Marc slips in next to him. "Anything started?" the Mercurian mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Jean uses Ethereal Tongues to reply. **Just the usual discovery of each other's Word-biases. I think Laurence was stalling, waiting for you.**

**Probably. Lilith's shut herself into her room and won't see any of us. I gather she closed the door in Laurence's face and he is clueless why.**

**Is he not normally clueless, in your opinion?**

**He didn't look guilty, and I think he's figured out enough to know when _he_ stepped in it.**

**This is a request for me to keep an eye on her, isn't it...**

**You're the one with the computer in her room.** Marc doesn't say anything about Jean's relative unscathedness. He'd done his gawping before the Final Battle, when Jean had started handing out the equipment from the _special_ weapons lockers.

**All right.**

He divides his attention into the computer, first. It was under the bed, which did not surprise him. Hell bred paranoia. Assuming he could spy -- through the room's defenses -- via the computer was perfectly reasonable. And accurate.

But under the bed can still see, as he lets his consciousness seep from the camera feed into the entire machine, as his Kyriotates could. He can see feet, and a backside, where Lilith sat with her back against the door.

Eventually, she gets up, and sits on the bed. Eventually, she lays down.

Eventually, Jean seeps himself through the computer, and constructs a vessel from atoms until he he can sit cross-legged in the corner and meditate upon the data from his own neural interface.

It was probably a tribute to all their efforts that Hell-bred paranoia was not strong enough to make her notice him, though he didn't think she truly slept.

Elsewhere, the Council meeting is nearly finished by the time she rolls over and looks at him. He regards her back, reading exhaustion in her body language, though her emotions are shielded tightly.

"I'm not planning on killing myself or running down to Hell to set myself up as Queen," she says flatly.

"Mm," he acknowledges. He makes a mental note to ask Laurence what had started all this while he'd been exchanging barbs with Litheroy, in ritual fashion.

"Who sent you?"

He hesitates for less time than most would notice. "Marc."

Her eyes narrow. "Mm."

For Nybbas, the imitation would deserve a small smile. For Lilith, he chooses a brief quirk of an eyebrow.

She watches him a while longer, and finally gives a low bark of laughter. She swings her legs off the bed and sits, facing away from him. "I suppose I should have expected you, since Novalis is busy."

"You wouldn't talk to her, anyway."

"That too. She pities me too much."

"Marc doesn't pity you."

Again, that low laugh, short and abrupt. "No. But he's spread too thin. And has a young Mercurian looking up to him, if I read the child aright."

"Mm." When she glares over her shoulder, he amends, "Yes. A good role model."

"It's going to drive Marc up the wall, talking around the subject of me."

Jean shrugs. "He'll live."

After a while, into her silence, into the drift of her gaze toward the wall in front of her, he says, "Laurence doesn't pity you, I think."

Her hands dig into the blanket. "No."

"And he has no relationship conflicts to interfere."

He'd expected to have to go further before finding the trigger point. She surprises him, snapping, "That is the _problem_."

"I don't understand," he says, because he doesn't.

She stands, abrupt and seeming angry from it. "He has _never_ had a relationship. He has _never_ wanted a woman -- or man, for that matter."

Lilith paces, and Jean waits a moment to say the obvious. He gives it a moment, and does. "Save you."

She stops, facing the wall at the foot of her bed. She puts a fist on it, deliberately gentle. "I had thought," she says. "I had thought that I appreciated his presence. That perhaps he was curious. I am a better agent than even I know. I watch. I learn. I _adapt_."

All admirable qualities, especially for a sleeper agent in Hell. Jean does not tell her this, as it seems to be a source of upset for her. He makes a little "mm" in his throat to show he is listening.

Her body shakes a moment, her grimace nearly hidden by her hair she bows her head. "And I make myself to what he wants. To what he feels he _should_ want. I did it deliberately. I saw myself, doing something that I knew he would appreciate. And another band snaps around his soul without him even noticing it."

"I do not believe you are making him do anything he does not want," Jean offers. (Deny or affirm, one would gain data and the other gain catharsis.)

"No," she whispers. "No, I just make him want it."

"And this bothers you."

She laughs again, and thumps the wall with her fist as she straightens and turns to pace again. "I don't _want_ him broken to my hand. I don't want a panther on my leash. I don't want a wild horse in my stables. It's one thing for a wild falcon to sit on your shoulder for a moment. It's another to tame it."

"You lose interest in tame things?"

She turns on him, snarling, " _That's not it!_ Tame, wild, whatever. But he has spent centuries celibate and abstaining and without a _clue_ why anyone would bother if not for base corporeal urges. Why should he smile because I will yield to him? _Why?_ "

 _We are not unchanging,_ Jean thinks, but does not say. He lets his expression show that he is considering her words, and their implications. He does not think she will understand that he considers the implications of the implications as well, but he won't count on that.

Lilith turns her face back to the wall, staring through it. "I will go," she murmurs. "You are his second, I think. He trusts your judgment. You will explain why he should not seek after me."

"You are sure of me."

"Of course." Her smile is bitterly amused. "You're an Elohite. All this pretty emotional drama -- you don't give a damn."

He holds his hand up and wobbles it side to side.

It gains him a nod. "All right. But even if you give a damn, you won't let it get in the way of what's best, correct?"

He nods in return. "In essence."

"Then you'll patch him up. I don't think I've broken him yet. You'll do what's right by the Symphony."

"Mm." Jean lets that sit a moment, then asks, "Where will you go?"

She tugs at her pants. "I don't know. Wherever I feel like, I suppose."

"There's a Lightning safehouse that is little-known."

Lilith slants a look at him from narrow eyes. " _You_ know about it."

Jean nods. "Yes. But I will not tell anyone unless it seems the objective better course."

She looks at him a long moment, then closes her eyes and lets her bitter smile escape. She leans on the wall, and slowly slides down it until they are both sitting in opposite corners, diagonal across the room. "You bastard," she says. "You utter bastard."

"Mm," he acknowledges.

If she persists in her plan, he will offer to escort her out of Notre Dame.

He thinks she will accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nybbas' Soundtrack is running Suzanne Vega's _Penitent_ and Vienna Teng's _The Tower._


	20. Repercussions

* * *

* * *

"She what?"

Jean let the question hang a beat, and then -- rather than repeat himself -- said, "She apparently believed she was 'not good for you.' "

Laurence leaned forward, his hands splayed out on the desk as if to prove he was not -- centuries of Balprop to the contrary -- going to summon a blade from the air and whack at whatever annoyed him. "She told you this."

"She said a number of things. Including that I am your second and your advisor, and she believed I would do what was best for the Symphony." Jean was mildly intrigued by that, still; he would have thought Dominic would have been assumed to be Laurence's advisor.

It took sharp eyes to see beyond religious sympathies.

Laurence's wings slowly flared, making him appear a blot of ink, a Rorschach test that had only the answer of "angry angel."

And then they folded, collapsing around his shoulders as he dropped his head. His hands were still flat on the desk, but more to prop him up than to occupy them. Quietly, he asked, "And... is it best for the Symphony?"

"I don't know." Jean observed as Laurence jerked his head up, clearly with a spark of irritation. The Elohite continued, "I have not been privy to your social life, Lord Commander."

The Malakite's head dropped back, and his shoulders shook a little. "Of course not. And she'd not tell Marc, either. We would _meddle_." He took a breath. Entirely unnecessary, but understandable. "What do you need to know, O my advisor?"

Jean walked over to Laurence's desk, and perched himself on the edge of it. "What do you wish to do with her?"

"What?" He pushed off and stood on his own, though still with his wings draped around his shoulders in the way that the wingless might hug themselves with their arms. From the inky feathers, his hands were paler shadows, barely overlaid with his usual human seeming as he gestured hesitantly. "I want... to fight for her. To fight beside her. To spar with her with blunted foils on the practice strip."

"And desire her in bed?" Jean used the best, highest, purest notes of celestial, with all the nuances of no nuance at all. Physical without the connotations of base carnality, or lust without caring. Emphasis of desire as one aspect of an unknown and possibly unknowable whole.

Again, Laurence's hands were abnormally weak, moving in the air as if searching for an opening in the defense of something he could not see. "It... seemed an aspect of being with her. Though... I would sometimes wonder... What it might be like. If it would cause her to smile."

Jean waited, and after a moment the Malakite's hands clenched. "Ah! I would consider the interests, the nature of a Mercurian, if I were courting one! Or a Cherub, or an Elohite! If I sought an Ofanite I would learn to run. If I sought a Kyriotate, I would welcome its variety. It is an aspect. And..."

Again, Jean waited. Again, he was rewarded for the patience as Laurence continued, haltingly. "And I. Do. Feel something. When she lets me... lead. Not mine to command by right. Or by skill. But when she gifts me with... yielding."

Dominic could never have pulled that confession from the younger Archangel, Jean reflected. Quietly, he murmured, "She feared that she played upon that."

"What?" The question was in a gentler, more confused tone.

"She feared," Jean explained, "that she was -- as the perfect sleeper agent she had to be -- unconsciously manipulating you to care for her, and to alter yourself thereby."

He added, into Laurence's blankly wounded look, "I suggest you consider the implications of her _concern_ for changing your personality from what she considered truer to your nature. I certainly found it interesting."

Laurence looked at his hands. Slowly, his wings lifted a bit from his shoulders. "Where is she now?"

"A place." Jean held up one hand, forestalling the obvious questions. "Give her time, Laurence. Let her define herself in a vacuum, and not by her task, the necessities of survival, or those she cares about. I estimate she will never trust your caring until she trusts her own motives."

The wings went back down. He walked back to his chair and sat, seeming far younger than he had for centuries. "But what if she decides... What if I am not needed?"

_Ah. Malakim._ Jean mentally shook his head, and slid off the desk so he could walk around and put his hand on the younger Archangel's head, consciously in benediction. "You are needed for a thousand other tasks as well, Laurence. One more or less does not define you and your purpose."

After a moment, Laurence nodded, and Jean took away his hand. The Malakite stated, low and wry, "She chose well in her advocate, didn't she."

"Yes." Jean let that hang there a moment, before continuing, "By farewell, she also called me a devious bastard."

"Ha. She's right."

Jean decided that the discussion had gone just about as he had hoped. "Mm," he agreed.


	21. Flight

* * *

* * *

Her partner in escape was a perfect gentleman. Polite. Offering to carry the basket where she'd put the few undergarments she felt like taking. Asking, "If I may?" before bamfing them about the countryside.

The final stretch, they took a car. She looked around the area as they drove, marking the city limits, marking the areas where few people might be. She'd be able to go back there herself, in a vehicle or via Song -- and like as not, that was why he'd bothered to drive.

Clever bastard. She'd been right to stay out of his orbit so long.

Eventually, bumping over what was barely a dirt road, long overgrown, they rounded a curve and she saw the safehouse.

It stood in a clearing in the trees. Three stories, shining white, and a garage off the side. The windows were shuttered over, probably with metal. The roof was entirely covered with solar panels. Slowly turning vanes on the top suggested wind-power was being utilized, as well.

"There's a covered swimming pool in the back," Jean commented, as the house woke, opening its shutters and the garage door.

"You didn't have this _built_ for me?" Lilith demanded, incredulously.

"No." He pulled into the garage. It was shining white there, too, with a door leading into the rest of the house. "But I did have it built to specifications of luxury."

She followed him in, curious. It was furnished after the fashion of Lightning -- the entertainment center and computer equipment on the airy bottom floor were top-notch and possibly a little beyond. The rest was in shades of gray and blue, and "modern."

The kitchen, she found as she checked, was stocked entirely in coffee and carbonated, caffeinated beverages with more sugar than an entire field of cane. The freezer was a little better off. "I can see I'm going to need to go shopping. If I've got any accounts left. I think Marc was doing rather a number on them before..."

Before the final battle. Before she brought down her world and Hell in one stroke.

Before she became the very darkest kind of hero.

"I'll see what I can do. He has the banks, but I have the computers."

She chuckled and followed him, both up into the loft bedroom's control center, and down into the basement -- and the control center there. At each place, she verified her identity with palm and eye and voice, and he assured her that her vessel's very DNA would open the computers to her commands. "Though," he added, "I do hope you don't need to blow the place up."

"Indeed," she replied dryly.

Back at the first floor, he headed out the front door. She said, flat and tired, "I suppose I owe you."

The Archangel shook his head. "No. When you saved Laurence's life, I owed _you_. Had he perished, I would have been next in command, and inherited all the distractions and troubles of clean-up and attempting to channel the Seraphim Council. I have enough to do with my own areas of work. This place is small enough as an expression of my utmost gratitude."

She eyed him. "You've been listening to Marc be diplomatic."

He smiled, very slightly. "Yes. And I have a Bright of my own."

Lilith smiled, one side drawn up more than the other. "And you're a devious bastard."

He bowed, and then arched upward into the sky as electricity, a booming thunder in his wake.

She closed the door and went to see what kind of net connection the computers had.


	22. Obligations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I totally blame melpomenes_mask for this one. You see, the Nybbas in _her_ head started nattering at her, and she told me about it, and then that got him nattering in _my_ head.
> 
> Oiy! No sooner do I get the ones in _my_ head to shut up, but I get infected by someone else!
> 
> * * *

* * *

Freedom is another word for "nothing left to lose." Viritrice would laugh and laugh at the irony of that. She, a bound Daughter, is freer than any sister who swore the Geases and were screwed at every turn. She, a former Renegade who tried to run back to Hell... But she doesn't have the luxury of sitting in the shattered shards of her Heart and laughing at the silence of Tartarus that greeted her when she got out of Limbo, got down an unguarded Tether, got back home from Shal-Mari.

Angels are in the skies of Hell.

Black winged death alternates with flaming Wheels that race across the darkness. Distant songs rend at Viritrice's ears, and when they come close, she curls into a ball, covering her ears, and both welcomes and hates the sense of peace and lassitude that covers her.

There are some others in the wreckage of the Principality. One, a Balseraph, yammered at her that he would awaken the machinery, that he would cause the constructs to turn upon the angels.

Viritrice ran from him before he could convince her to help. Suicide. Insane.

But the clear areas... The places where angels don't go... They're getting smaller, and more dangerous. The larger things, the Band-constructs and Frankenstained damned, they take up the best, most fortified hiding places.

She's scared to try getting to Perdition. She'd like to. She knows _that_ Prince, at least, is not dead.

Once, she did a passing favor, for some scut-sweeping Impudite. Honestly, she can't even remember which one he was or what exactly she did. It was so easy to give the Impudites a little Essence, or a quick snog in a corner. And if it made a new hook or made a stronger one, so be it. A resource, and someday she'd be able to get Essence.

Till one day she sorted through the tokens, and one of them glowed like a sun, and she realized that the newest Prince...

...was hers, for a week.

It's a fool who spends a week on a new Prince. He might yet have been brought down, laid low.

She kept her ace in the hole. Too soon to spend it, then too dangerous to spend it casually. Viritrice never told. Never. The Game would have found out, and pressured her. And who thinks to ask if someone has a hook on a Prince?

She thought of using it, when her lab-master framed her for his own failures. But she was too busy running, too busy wanting to clear her name. Too busy setting up the Essence feeds and slipping into Limbo for days that stretched to weeks that stretched to months, for all the Trumpets were calling to her in the silence.

He's still alive. His token glitters, not a burning sun anymore -- but a glitter that suggests he's not so diminished as dead Vapula.

He's still alive, and she's heard, from scuttling damned, that Perdition awoke for a moment, not so long ago.

Awoke, as if to the Prince's own hand, and then failed again, sinking back into the unnatural silence.

Dusk Essence no longer comes, but she's gone through the no man's land, dodging any shuddering, shattered guard-machine. She programmed some of them, in her younger days. She knows how to evade them, with half of them broken and dead. If damned souls can get through on luck, she can do it with cunning.

The hypnotized souls of Perdition still watch their empty television screens. And as she'd heard, if you take them away, they wail and weep to return. And will part with the Essence they still receive.

It's enough. She can fill up.

And then... Then she can call the Master of Perdition back. Call him back and make him lift her away with him. The Prince is dead. Long live the Prince.

Viritrice nearly cuts her hand, clenched on the Geas-token, as she sends the message.

**Come to me, in Perdition. Rescue me. Save me, Nybbas. Save me for your own.**

****

_Busy, busy, a thousand things to do, a thousand more in the next moment..._

_And then, a thousand and one. The message blazes into his mind, chokes him like a collar at his throat -- and his scrabbling fingers feel the Geas-band that's wrapped there._

_It takes a long moment, a moment that stretches into two, three, many notes of his Heartsong, his Soundtrack an urgent **What Lola wants, Lola gets** , until finally he **gets it**. Somehow, somewhere, he got hooked. And if **he** couldn't shake it..._

_There's a Lilim of Vapula in Perdition, who's got him by the throat. Literally._

_The Angel of the Media stops dead, and swears in Helltongue, sending relievers scattering in alarm and making his Cherub poke her head out from under his desk with her ears flattened._

_And then he stumbles for the door._


	23. Nesting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Because sometimes the characters just want to blog about their lives, apparently, and won't stop telling me until I do it._

* * *

* * *

The account balances come through, as Jean promised. She shuffles some of them into other accounts, where it will be easier to move them further on -- from a computer which does not have presumed back doors to its master.

The gilded cage yields online games, even after all that's gone on. She blames Marc and Jean for that, cheerfully. And probably Laurence and Novalis. None of them would want to destroy society so utterly that it could not be rebuilt.

Same for Eli, but he's not around to blame.

Still, she racks up nearly three days on the character, getting it to a point where it can do favors for lower levels. It's petty. It's useless -- can't get a hook, let alone a Geas, through a MMORPG. But she keeps track of character names and hunts them down with search engines later.

It's a bit irritating when she looks at her scanty handful of contacts -- most of them underage, no doubt -- and ponders that Lightning may be looking at the same list.

Such a comfortable cage. Even more than beneath Notre Dame, and without the Tether chanting in her ear all the time.

She decides to lay off the Jolt cola. It's making her grouchy.

Email comes in from the High Programmer himself. He'd forgotten -- forgotten, hah, probably wanted to see if she'd run off immediately -- to tell her about the post office box attached to the house account. The key is in the kitchen drawer, and the post office is in the city, and the box is, somehow, 111. She tells him she's going to PvP his character if he ever gets onto "her" server.

The cage isn't just gilded. It has an option for self-upgrading to an even more comfortable lair.

It's probably not even a cage, really. More of an observation station.

Film the Wild Lilith in her natural habitat. View her behavior. Understand her life cycle and what one can do to live in harmony with it.

She's a Superior, still (though sometimes she had wondered if she, too, would feel her Word and power slipping away, after she was no longer needed). She goes through the house, looking at the underlying Forces that compose it. That all the cameras she finds are dead and connected only to the security stations she controls... Well, it doesn't mean much when dealing with someone who can possess a computer personally.

She maxes one character out on levels and starts another, twinking it shamelessly with her first.

She reads the news. There, and there -- that's Nybbas' fine hand at work, rounding up his people and giving them their marching orders. Not fast enough for his full elevation, not yet. But already, she can tell that for once, Media, Lightning, and Trade are working as a team.

Briefly, she wonders if she should be setting up to oppose them. She knows what manipulations they can do within human society.

And yet, from all she can search out on the internet news feeds, more humans seem to be happy than before.

Are they happy sheep? Or are they happy cats, walking in their paths?

Would they choose otherwise, if the hands of angels were not lightly on their shoulders?

Would this _be_ the way of the world by nature, had the demons not interfered?

(She remembers the sorcerers she killed, when she thought to put off matters. It seems unlikely.)

Does she care?

She swims. She _hot tubs_ , and only the not-quite-perfect depth of the seats convinces her that Jean did not have this place built to her specifications. The white-white walls, she could believe mere camouflage. But the chairs and seats are, for the most part, scaled to taller folk.

Short is underestimated.

Short is how humans tended to be, back when she was made.

Short... fits against a short, young Malakite, just taller enough than she that their shoulders would not bump awkwardly if they held each other.

She finds herself lying on the bed and thinking of... recreation, and partners for it. (Not lovers. She shies away from the word, still, and for no good reason.)

It's a large bedroom. An angel could spread its wings there, or she could sing her own into form. Or both.

It's a large bed. She could invite two or three others into it at a time, and -- provided they didn't spread wings -- they wouldn't be too crowded.

She catches herself fantasizing about it; the first two invitees are easy, white wings and black overlapping, and the third candidate drifts through possibilities. When she finds herself thinking of storm-gray eyes, though, she gets up and goes back to the computer games.

Her subconscious is too untrustworthy.

After a while, though, she decides that her subconscious might be appeased with something battery powered. Maybe several things. And batteries.

The computer comes in handy. So does the post office box. She decides to teleport, and pick up a backpack somewhere in town. She's out of food anyway, and a bit tired of getting the munchies and not even finding popcorn.

Level-grinding is tiresome without popcorn. News-reading sometimes makes her want chocolate.

It's not entirely necessary for her, any more than sleeping is. But it's comforting.

She decides to Sing herself to town, and walk the rest of the way. She can explore a while. Shop a while. Pick up her package at the post office.

And when she gets back, with two cloth bags and a backpack full of stuff, there is someone sitting on the ground _exactly_ on her prior arrival spot, behind a small stand of trees, not too far from the road.

The other woman stands, wary-looking -- but not terrified or paranoid. She's neither attractive, nor unattractive. Not as short as Lilith, but not overly tall. It's the sort of forgettable appearance that's practically an art form among non-humans.

"Hello," Lilith says. And then (because really, there's no point playing coy), "Waiting long?"

The other woman pauses for a long moment. "A few hours."

"Sorry. I didn't feel like taking a car. Who are you affiliated with?"

A longer pause. "No one, I suppose."

Lilith rolls her eyes. "All right. Now, bearing in mind that there are no more Princes with Words, and that I'm bamfing about and not really bothering to dance around the subject, can we please assume I'm not a demon? Therefore, you either need to take to your heels, or you can go on your merry way and phone up a Tether or something."

The other woman's eyes go wide. "What _are_ you?"

"Not a demon. Are you going to try to follow me home? Because I'd rather you didn't, and I don't know what your range is."

"This... city."

"Lovely." Lilith wrinkles her nose. "And how much do I have to pay you off to move house?"

The other woman glares a bit.

"All right, fine. I'll mute it more when I pop in and out. Call up a Lightning Tether and get the Lord High Programmer's assurance that I'm not bothering anyone. Settled?" The bags are unbalanced, and Lilith shifts them around in her hands.

Apparently this has not gone according to any of the many scripts that the other woman has been rehearsing, waiting out behind the trees. Eventually, she manages to say, "I'll... do that."

Lilith smiles. "Very good. Ask for a news-dump while you're at it, if you haven't been tapped into the Heaven-gossip."

And then she pulls the Symphony around her, spending more energy than she had before to mute the harmonies of the Song, and is back in the woods near her pretty white cage.

It's still a good half-hour walk back, but it's not a bad thing to keep one's lairs hidden from everyone but the cameras.


	24. 30 Second Summaries II

**Interesting Times - Paladins and Diplomats**  
LAURENCE: I want to find a good place to neck with my girlfriend.  
MARC & LILITH: *giggle*  
LAURENCE: Damn, Marc thought of this first.  
LILITH: *freaks out a bit*  
LAURENCE: ...I'm not jealous.  
LILITH: I need a lie-down to sort out my head.  
.  
.  
**Drat you, Incandescens!**  
INCANDESCENS: Listen to Vienna Teng, Beth!  
ARCHANGELBETH: That is so Lilith. Now I have to use it.  
INCANDESCENS: Toldyaso.  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times: Sappers** (by genchaos, who can generate her own 30 second summary if she wants)  
_(note: Phanuel -- "Phan-Chan" -- is the Grigori Archangel of Death in this continuity)_  
LAURENCE: I shouldn't be talking to you.  
PHAN-CHAN: That's okay.  
LAURENCE: I can't promise you can come back.  
PHAN-CHAN: I just wanna help kill Saminga.  
LAURENCE: That, I can give you.  
PHAN-CHAN: Deal.  
SAMINGA: *dies*  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times: Survivor's Guilt** (more by genchaos, as above.)  
GIRI: And _you_ owe me, and _you_ owe me, and _you_ owe me --OW! Okay, you don't. But _you_ owe me over there. All done! Now I kill demons!  
DEMONS: *die*  
GIRI: I seem to be alive, and the demons are dead, and WTF?  
TATIEL: *sniffle*  
GIRI: ...okay, someone has had a worse time than I. *hugs*  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times - Loose Ends**  
SWORDIE: I can have my snoogums! I love you, Archangel!  
LAURENCE: Right. Okay, that's the last of them. What next... Oh, right. Walking wounded. Crud. Giri, I need to talk to you. Have a feather.  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times - Strange Bedfellows**  
DOMINIC: There is so much to do before the final battle starts.  
MARC: Have some coffee.  
DOMINIC: Huh?  
MARC: And a hug.  
DOMINIC: ...okay.  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times: Unwelcome News and What Came Of It** (by genchaos)  
GIRI: My boss is dating my mother. I am going to get stinking drunk. *does*  
RELIEVER: Boss wants to see ya!  
GIRI: ...  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times - Reflections**  
NYBBAS: Augh. Her. WHY?  
LILITH: ...  
LAURENCE: Stop pestering my girlfriend. Are you okay, honey?  
LILITH: ... Ineedsometimebymyself kthxbye  
MARC: Are you okay in there?  
LILITH: Go away.  
JEAN: Mm.  
LILITH: I'm going to run away and you're not going to stop me.  
JEAN: ...okay, you're right.  
LILITH: Devious bastard.  
.  
.  
**Intersting Times: One Note In All The World** (by ledencya)  
FURFUR: You know, this sucks. I'm leaving.  
LUCIFER: *dies*  
FURFUR: This sucks more. I want a guitar.  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times log: the Laurentine Lilim Meets with His Boss** (RP log with Giri's genchaos.)  
GIRI: Boss, um, I'm ready.  
LAURENCE: Sorry I took so long. Say goodbye to your Discord.  
GIRI: Boss, are you really dating mom?  
LAURENCE: Yeah. She made a bargain with God and I couldn't hate her anymore.  
GIRI: ...  
LAURENCE: I totally understand.  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times: Second Chance** (by arconius)  
MYSTERIOUS SAINT: Here's what my life was and Eli saved him and I miss him.  
TATIEL: *sniffle* *purr* *sniffle*  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times - Repercussions**  
JEAN: Lilith needs some alone-time.  
LAURENCE: But I want to be with her?  
JEAN: For the hawt sexxors?  
LAURENCE: ...I have no clue. Maybe?  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times - Flight**  
JEAN: Okay, here's your new house. I'll turn on the money.  
LILITH: What do I owe you for this?  
JEAN: Nothing. If it weren't for you, I'd have to head up the Seraphim Council. *shudder*  
LILITH: You're a manipulative bastard.  
JEAN: Yes. Thank you.  
.  
.  
**(RP Log: So This Is Perdition)**  
_(Date of **this** Summary: May 31, 2019)_  
NYBBAS: I need to see home.  
JEAN: This is a bad idea.  
NYBBAS: Babe, I am _made_ of bad ideas. You knew that when you redeemed me.  
JEAN: ...I'm coming with you.  
NYBBAS: *tries to awaken Perdition with his puny Word-bound might*  
JEAN: *stops him before he can kill himself*  
SOUNDTRACK: *every "home" song in creation*  
NYBBAS: *passes out*  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times - Obligations**  
VIRITRICE: I was in Limbo just a few months and now all Hell has... OH CRAP, there are ANGELS here! NYBBAS! I have this here old Geas and I need help!  
NYBBAS: ... *pause* !!! *pause* _****!_  
RELIEVERS: Eek! Helltongue!  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times: Crazy Life** (by harlecerule)  
WRENCHIAL: Life kinda sucks. No Prince, no Word, no friend.  
TOMAS: You're alive! Yay! Can we be friends again?  
WRENCHIAL: *WAAAAAH!*  
.  
.  
**Interesting Times - Nesting**  
LILITH: Dear Blog: New house. Played computer games. Want my boyfriends. Trying to cut down. Went shopping. Met weird lady. Came home the long way.  
WATCHER: ...


	25. Plucking Scene (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT SAFE FOR WORK. As the original warning said:  
>  _Okay, this one is smut. So there. Slash-smut, at that. Bondage, consensual, and... plucking scene. Minor language. Not worksafe, if one hadn't figured that out before. O; >_

* * *

* * *

"How about electrolysis?" Nybbas asks Jean, when his nominal Superior is visiting to check up on him. "I mean, Lightning, right? Gotta have the equipment somewhere around here, right?"

"I don't think electrolysis works on feathers," Jean says, patiently. His eyes have that Elohite blandness about them that suggests he's repressing _something_.

Nybbas... sulks. Partly it's real. Partly... it's because he can, and not be blasted into smoking boots. "But they're... messy! They're all the wrong texture, and the weight is weird, and the muscles and joints don't _bend_ right, and I dunno how you _fly_ with 'em..."

He breaks off as Jean manifests a pair of wings himself and pokes at them for a moment. Then the Elohite vanishes them and shrugs. "I'd suspect that Marc likes them."

Nybbas doesn't blush. He's trained himself not to blush. His wings, however, prickle with tiny feathers -- despite him using a bat-winged vessel seeming -- until he glares them away.

"Mm-hm." Jean gives his nominal Servitor a look that is an odd combination of knowing and accepting. "Well, I suppose you could try plucking. You'd need to find someone to go along with the kink, mind, and they do grow back rather downy. But then, Marc might also find that... cute."

The nuances of that "cute" are nothing about fluffy Flowers-Mercurians or puppies or kittens, and have far more tinges of "cute the way a vulnerable lover blushing is cute." It's probably a good thing that Jean gives a nod and heads out the door right then. And that Naioth is off collecting personal photos of areas in Heaven, healed enough to leave the office now and then.

And definitely a good thing that Nybbas _Does_ **Not** **_Blush_**. Ever.

*****

Coffee with Marc is always a pleasure. Nybbas loves the Lightning-tech, wouldn't do so well without it... But Marc _understands_ and _appreciates_ and... Is really good looking, and charming with sincerity, and...

Nybbas drinks his coffee, and tries not to babble. He also tries to keep his wings from feathering up again. It doesn't always work, and finally he breaks from exasperation. "Augh! I wish they wouldn't _do_ that! It's..." awful, he almost finishes. "You don't mind? Do you? The leather-look?"

Marc laughs, somehow making it a delight in Nybbas instead of a mockery. "I don't mind," he assures the younger Mercurian. "Though I think that you look perfectly good in feathers as well."

"Oh. Okay." Maybe he doesn't _entirely_ hate them. But still... "Jean says electrolysis won't work on 'em," he mutters into his coffee mug.

Marc considers this, sipping as well, and waiting for a dignified moment to comment, "If you really want to be drastic, there's plucking."

"Um." He does not blush, he does not blush, he does not blush.

"I could help, if you wanted me to." Marc's smile draws Nybbas into a wicked secret.

"Y'd _do_ that?" he gasps, forgetting to will the feathers away as they break out in pinpricks all over his wings. The electric shiver within him is that strong. When it fades a little, he suspiciously says, "Y'wouldn't _mind_ , darlin'?"

Marc shrugs. "I have little problem with something done between consenting angels, my dear. Just so long as you don't need me to, er, reciprocate?" One of his wings -- somehow, they never seem to _intrude_ \-- waggles to call decorous attention to its long, white feathers.

"Oh, no, darlin'! They look _good_ on _you_!"

"Whew!" Marc contrives to look relieved. "So, if you want... I do have a room with a very nice bed..."

Nybbas doesnotblush,no. "That'd... be great, darlin'."

All right, maybe a little blush.

*****

It's a splendid bed. It's got black silk sheets, apparently all the better to show off Marc's wings and halo. (Because hey, other Mercurians are fine. It's _Nybbas'_ feathers Nybbas hates.) It's huge. It's got enough pillows to carpet Nybbas' entire _office_ in the Halls of Progress, and it's not a small office.

Marc himself is peering beneath it, using his cane to try to hook something out. While the view is kinda interesting, Nybbas asks, "Can I help, darlin'?"

"Mmmthink I've almost got it... there!" Marc bats at something and then gets up, lifting the briefcase up onto the bed. "I don't use it often, but every now and then, my dear..." He flicks a glance, probably to see if Nybbas is bothered by the thought that Marc's had other people in the bed.

Nybbas isn't bothered. Parts of him aren't sure why not, but other parts are telling him it's stupid to be bothered if an Archangel's had other lovers, and other parts are going "Huh? What?" at the very thought of being bothered. "Erm," he says, because it's been ages since he's been the one _without_ the power in a relationship.

Marc hms about what's in the briefcase, and Nybbas comes over. As he'd kinda expected, it's very nicely done bondage gear.

The Archangel apparently gives up trying to decide what he might need and simply dumps it all out on the bed-corner: cuffs and ropes and plugs and dildos and gags and... more things than Nybbas would have thought could fit in that briefcase, really.

"There," Marc says with satisfaction. "That should suffice."

" _All_ of it, babe?" Nybbas says, mouth on automatic pilot.

"Um." Marc regards the pile again. "Well, perhaps not _all_ of it. At once. I think we'd need extra manifestations."

"In _deeeed_ ," Nybbas drawls.

"Hmmmm." Marc smiles at him slyly. "So, shall we take one of those horrible Shal-Mari plots about the wicked Archangel and the poor redeemed and do it right?"

"Hey," Nybbas protests by reflex. "They weren't _all_ awful!"

Rather faster than he'd have expected, Marc has moved up against him, and purrs, "Oh, but the ones I saw were terrible. The wings, they just don't _bend_ like that. And now, I get to show you how it _should_ go, mmmmm?"

It makes his wings break out in feathers again, all scaredexcited gleeterrordesire. "Er, ah... Yeah." He finds his voice again, gone deeper into his chest. "Oh, _yeah_ , darlin'."

"Goooood." Marc runs his hand up Nybbas' stomach, untucking his shirt from his pants, and then down again, and under the shirt.

It hasn't been so electrifying, to be touched, for... Nybbas forgets. And never with someone...

...who he's _liked_ so much, _trusted_ so much.

He relaxes into it, Glasses filming static and clear, unnecessary breath catching in his throat.

Which is -- perfect timing -- when Marc kisses him, and sets off all the fireworks again. It feels like his knees are folding, and only Marc's arm at his back keeps him up. It feels like his wings are expanding, and for a moment he's distracted by trying to force them back, forgetting that the feathers have to _be_ there before they can be... pulled.

Marc draws back a little. "Ah-ah-ah," he scolds, and nips at Nybbas' neck. His hands are busy with the fastenings, behind wings and at the front, of Nybbas' shirt.

Nybbas has lost his voice again, somewhere. Probably on the floor or in the pile of _equipment_ on the bed. "Wh- Whaddya want me to..."

Somehow, Marc's gotten all the shirt's openings open, and pulls it off him. "Mmmm. Lie back and think of feathers, my dear," he mock-growls, swinging Nybbas around to push him down on the bed.

It's satin under his fingers, slick and soft. It feels weird against his wings, a dozen little points each rather than the usual vane-fingers. 

It's utterly unimportant, because Marc's fingers are brushing him as he undoes Nybbas' belt, and those brief near-tickling sensations are _the_ best thing to focus on right now. The way those hands feel going down his legs, until clothing is all gone, as if it'd been burned away somewhere.

Nybbas opens his eyes, looking up at Marc grinning down on him, the older Mercurian propped up on the bed with their hands close together. Not _quite_ touching. His wings, instead of being the demure, polite appendages that Nybbas is used to, are spread out over them both, _huge_ and nearly glowing.

Okay, he's seen _this_ scene in some Shal-Mari porn rag, and yeah, the real thing is _much_ better.

One of those wings (they look _fine_ on Marc, totally _fine_ ) curves away for a moment, and bats something from the pile ("of Doom," Nybbas hastily edits out of his thoughts) into the Archangel's hands. Marc untangles it with a flourish, and then trails his fingers down Nybbas' arm till he gets to the wrist -- and pulls it up gently, fitting it into the padded cuff.

That's another thing the smut magazines got wrong. Marc's not using Songs, or strength, or anything more than a wicked grin and intense gaze. He's got the strength -- Nybbas can feel that, no problem, as his other wrist goes into the other cuff -- but that's not what's holding him in a state of _wowyesOMGpleaseackwow_ all tangled together. It's presence. Sheer presence, glowing. The promise of sensation and the threat that it might be _intense_.

Even the after-effects are paralyzing, when Marc glances over to toss the end of the cuffs' rope around a bit of the bed's headboard. Even when Marc's grin turns mischievous instead of wicked, and he lifts Nybbas' wrists over his head. "Hang on," Marc warns, and tugs on the rope.

It slides Nybbas up onto the bed even more, with a muffled, undignified meep. He glares at Marc as the Archangel winds the end of the rope around his hand and slowly crawls up after. The glare fades away; how does a Mercurian look like a predator?

Marc pauses between Nybbas' legs, looks down, and up again, and is back to wicked as he dips down to kiss Nybbas' belly. There's no corporeal hydraulics to consider -- Nybbas feels himself wavering between semi-soft and waiting for a touch to rock hard, like a vibration of uncertainty and longing. He groans, and wriggles, when Marc (still dressed, save for shoes) sits on his hips to knot the wrist-cuffs' cord around the headboard.

"Now, let's see..." Marc slides off, and goes to stand over the pile (and this time Nybbas does _not_ edit out the "of Doom" in his mind). "So _many_ options. Well, we can't have everything at once, or we'd be Kyriotates, right, my dear?"

"Yeah, darlin'," Nybbas whispers, since his throat doesn't want to be any louder. The words are automatic. His eyes are wide.

"So let's keep this simple." Marc dangles another pair of cuffs from one hand, and... a gag from the other.

Nybbas' mouth, still on automatic pilot, forms the words, "Is that what I think it is?" His voice doesn't get the message.

Marc tiger-crawls onto the bed again -- and his wings aren't even falcon-shaped, but it doesn't seem to make him less impressive or predatory -- and stops at Nybbas' feet. Nybbas twitches as Marc's fingernails lightly graze over his toes, and alternates tension with relaxing as Marc wraps the cuffs around Nybbas' ankles, and then hooks the cuffs together.

Then he sits on Nybbas' hips again (the pressure both wonderful and frustrating) and displays the gag. It's not just a twist of leather. It's got a flatish, fat W-shape attached. Marc trails it from Nybbas' forehead, down lightly over the Glasses, over his nose... Pauses at his mouth.

"I think, my dear, you're going to need something to bite down on. So." Marc uses a finger to tip Nybbas' chin down, and slide the gag in. It tastes like leather. It fastens behind his head, snug and unyielding. He _can't talk_ and there's something uniquely terrifying and thrilling about that. He pants, entirely unnecessarily.

Marc crawls off him again, and stands at the foot of the bed, where Nybbas can watch. Watch his fingers slowly taking off one button, then another, then another... Getting to the last, and then moving to the buttons that close it below his wings. Flashing his bare chest and belly -- not anything like the hardbody look of the war-party Archangels, but showing that he understands appearances count.

Nybbas wriggles, as the only part of him that can stand to the attention does. He almost doesn't care that his wings have gone all feathers and fluff.

What Marc does with his pants may not be a strip-tease by Shal-Mari standards, but it's _hot_. Slow, deliberate, graceful. Revealing a form designed by someone who prefers elegance to bludgeoning and shock value. Nybbas makes a muffled whimpering noise around the gag.

Marc sprawls along the bed, stretching arms and legs and wings, and then relaxing with his fingertips brushing Nybbas' hip. It's a _big_ bed. Nybbas tries to sweep one of his wings down to lie against Marc's chest and stomach, but the angle's all wrong, and the feathers don't like being pulled backwards, and he's got no leverage. Marc chuckles and reaches out to pat the twitching wing. "Just admiring, my dear."

Well, that's some mollification. Nybbas almost manages to make a satisfied "mmf," but Marc's sat up again and is petting his belly and chest. Up nearly to Nybbas throat. Down nearly between his legs.

Nybbas tries to get his feet up a bit, arch into the other Mercurian's touch. Marc chuckles. "While I hear one needs to be in the _mood_ for a proper plucking, I don't think I'll let you get what you want that easily, my dear." He swings himself to straddle Nybbas, resting just above what is rapidly turning into a very stiff cock that wants to press itself against the base of Marc's spine. Even the faint, cynical comments in the back of his head, about antennas tuning into the Trade-Word, can't keep Nybbas from wriggling.

Marc sits down a bit more heavily, pushing Nybbas' hips into the bed. "Patience, my dear," he purrs, and lightly draws his nails up over Nybbas' chest and nipples. It's just sharp enough to make him gasp again, and then Marc is lightly pinching, fixing him with that intense gaze. It's so very electric, sparking at the contact points, running down to his cock and out along his wings. Even the thought of his feathers fluffing out like dandelions can't distract him. Especially not when Marc lets go with one hand and bends down to lick that nipple, kiss it. Bite it, gentle and firm and sharp.

When Marc slides his fingers into the feathers near the base of Nybbas' left wing, Nybbas can't tell if maybe feathers have something good going for them after all, or if it's just 'cause of _who's_ doing it. It's like every feather, every _strand_ of feather, is attached directly to the base of his skull. It's like a hundred different _really hot_ porn channels feeding into him at once. When Marc's other hand goes into the right wing's feathers, it doubles everything. Marc's mouth moving from nipple to nipple, and then to Nybbas' neck. Marc's hands running through the maybe-not-so-hated-right-now feathers...

He's not in the best shape to think about it right now, but Nybbas is pretty sure that this is the closest he's ever come to orgasm without actually getting one. Top five, minimum.

Marc draws back a little, and starts rocking back and forth. It makes Nybbas' very, very sensitive cock rub against Marc's back. It means his feathers, within Marc's fingers, are being pulled a little. And a little more. And a little more with each rocking, even as his cock is getting a little more rubbing.

It's a dance, between the sharp pulling _pain_ and the rubbing pleasure that tells his nerves that the feather-tugging is good too. Marc selects one feather, and the next rocking forward pushes it back into the wing like a needle, while the next rocking backward pulls it away like a hook in his nipple and cock and balls and tongue and heart. The lesser pulls of Marc's other hand are added, and it's only the disparity from the pain-pleasure cycle that keeps him from climaxing instantly. He can feel it loosening, pulling a little further out with each tug, and the anticipation is a mix of fear for the pain and glee for the feathergone.

The give and take of it sends echos of _TradeTradeTrade_ into his belly and mind. But he can't pay attention to that. Can't even pay attention to Soundtrack, because his _feathers_ are pulled, and his cock is rubbed and he. Can. _Feel_. When the feather releases from the wing, and Marc _presses_ his hips down, lets his other hand stroke free of the feathers there, and the painpleasureglee is like a lightning strike all up and down his spine.

He pants from it, cock drooping a bit in relief, while Marc purrs and -- when Nybbas opens his eyes -- puts the white feather in his mouth. _Cat who ate the canary, huh!_ Nybbas thinks, but can't muster up the energy to Sing Ethereal Tongues to share it.

Around the feather, Marc says, "You know... Just _one_ feather is hardly a plucking scene, my dear."

Nybbas' eyes widen, and he tries to muster the coherency to do something besides make muffled noises of alarm behind the gag. Marc leans forward to kiss and nip at Nybbas' face and jaw, his hands burrowing back into the feathers of Nybbas' wings.

This time, he picks two feathers, on the other wing, and where his hand strokes the small bare spot on the first, it's like aftershocks. The rocking is familiar, and the anticipation is _worse_ than before. And _better_. And when those two feathers come free, Nybbas comes too, and screams into the gag -- and moans as Marc doesn't give him time to rest, but works on two feathers on the other side immediately.

Somewhere, somehow, it's not just rubbing the top of his cock, but Marc's actually rocking and _around_ it. Maybe gone fem-form, but Nybbas can't tell, since he's too busy thrashing and clutching at the wrist-cuff's ropes. He can feel the Word, though, rubbing against him, interleaving with his Forces, and telling him, _This is the trade, this is the bargain. You give me your trust. You give me your control. And I will give you as much sensation as you can handle. And I will bring you to the edge and over and back again. This is the trade._

*****

They don't finish either wing, though there are huge bare spots on each side. But when the gag and cuffs are over to the side, and Nybbas is sprawled on top of Marc, the exposed wing-skin feels every feather pressing against it like ice and fire.

It takes a long time for him to find his voice again.


	26. Loopholes

* * *

* * *

"Absolutely _not_!" Dominic reared back, his cloak nearly slipping off his head with the suddenness of his movement.

"And why not?" Novalis demanded, standing in the middle of the Seraphim Council floor, hands on her hips.

"They are _exiled!_ "

"From Heaven." Laurence's voice was thoughtful, and quiet, but it cut through the room like his Word, leaving silence bleeding behind it.

Jean was the first to break the silence. "They may not consider such a posting to be an improvement, Lord Commander."

"I'm not suggesting that we herd them into Hell," Laurence replied, mildly. "But if Novalis wants to offer a job to them, and a celestial realm to keep their Hearts, I do not think their original sentence covers this new option. Does it, Dominic?"

Forced to consider the matter, Dominic ruffled his feathers under the cloak and sank back. "No. I suppose it does not. They were not banished from the Marches, either, though they were told not to walk within the Vale."

"It's a place," Novalis stated, still not wound down from the initial resistance, and clearly unsure whether or not Laurence was actually helping her argument. "It's a dirty job, and someone's got to do it. I think giving them a task might help. And it's not like there are going to be reproductive issues there."

The Council murmured collectively.

Jean raised his voice enough to be heard. "I second the proposal." His attention seemed to have turned away to the screens and keyboards on his Council desk.

Laurence followed, almost lazily, "Thirded. Any opposed?"

Dominic held his silence a moment. "I will have to review the case."

"Permission to tell them that you _are_ reviewing the case," Novalis said, tight-lipped.

Laurence overrode whatever Dominic might have said. "Granted. Try to minimize contact, as per the original sentencing as I understand it."

The Archangel of Flowers... bowed to Laurence. "Yes, sir." Her voice was calm and serene, and only the lack of hesitation before the honorific indicated lack of sarcasm.

"Next issue," Laurence said as Novalis walked back to her seat. "Request for representatives of the Words to be sent to the demon prisons in Hell, in an effort to expose the demons there to redemption options. Is there any discussion?"

Litheroy waved a wing, and Laurence indicated he should take the floor.


	27. Tactical Vulnerability (flashback chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set sometime _before_ "Reflections," "Flight," and "Nesting." As is probably obvious, but you never know.

* * *

* * *

_Rrrrrrrf_ go the cards in Lilith's hands. Then _shhhhhhhf_ as she arches the shuffled edges together. Novalis, trounced soundly in canasta, made her farewells and escape a while ago. Marc is re-tallying the scores, to see if all the addition was right. Laurence, who had gotten a lucky streak of cards and actually won the evening's games, savors the odd, peaceful feeling. It's not a few hours of peace snatched from the jaws of work. It's not an unexpected moment of transcendence that has to be admired before it fades. It's simply... been a good game of cards, some unexpected wins, and he has nothing pressing to do with this manifestation at the moment.

He'd never thought he'd appreciate having _time_ so much. Time to let the peace-seeking Archangels try their methods first. Time to tell Elohim, "destroy this evil; convince the demon to seek redemption." Time to spend, learning an entirely pointless set of card-games entirely for social reasons.

Time to actually wander into the Library and come out with a stack of _fiction_ books.

That one was entirely Lilith's fault. In revenge, he'd asked her to explain what was supposed to be funny about some of them. Her riposte had been to do so, and he actually understood some of the jokes now, at least intellectually.

"Hmph. He _did_ win by that much." Marc eyes Laurence, and complains, "Cards is supposed to be a _Mercurian's_ game."

Laurence smiles lazily, the expression he's used countless times when some demon thought it had found an overconfident human kid.

"Check his feather-roots," Lilith suggests. "Perhaps he's been dying his wings."

Marc mutters, "Now _there's_ a whole new meaning to 'going white.'"

Laurence's expression goes to what even he can recognize as a smirk, and he slouches in the chair. Because he can, without being on a hair trigger of alertness.

He breaks into a coughing fit, from accidentally inhaling saliva, at Lilith's comment, "Well, if he's dying them, I suppose we would have to check everywhere to see if he's a natural brunet."

"Mmm-hmm." Marc is not, both surprisingly and thankfully, looking at Laurence. Instead, he's watching Lilith's hands, as she shuffles and arches the cards.

Laurence looks to her face, her eyes lowered, her mouth curved in the faintest of smiles.

He realizes that there's a mask there. Light, delicate, but hiding her true emotions behind it.

And after thinking about it a moment, he understands it. Tactical disadvantage. He supposes that it would offend Marc, to think that a Malakite could speak of romantic strategy -- but it's what resonates inside him.

So he ponders it in those terms, and wonders if he should retreat, order Marc to the supply train, or insist that both of them withdraw.

Marc, meanwhile, reaches out and stills those shuffling hands, taking one into his own and beginning to massage her palm.

Lilith pauses, and then slouches in her chair. "Oh, you have until next week to stop doing that," she purrs.

"Oh, _do_ I?" Marc asks, and leans out of his chair, walking his hands up her arm, until he can slip his arms under her back and legs and swing her out of her own chair and onto the bed.

She eeks in apparent alarm, but her feet give only decorous little kicks. Laurence knows full well -- having gotten one in the stomach when they agreed to a full-out match, and not ordinary foil rules -- that she's not actually upset. This is confirmed when she only flops on the bed and lets Marc start massaging her hand again.

Their reactions, their movements -- Laurence would envy the companionship, if he had it in him to do so. But he can't find any reasons; or at least, none that don't tangle him up in what Lilith has been, and what she has seemed, and what she is now. It's easier to simply appreciate the way Marc is propped up on his elbow, with Lilith's hand in his, and how her dark hair falls across the pillow and blanket as her face reflects cat-like, uninhibited pleasure.

Though, as her eyes slit open, a trace of mask drifts over her face. Presumably it's tension in her hand, as well, because Marc looks up and says, "Laurence, why don't you come over here and learn the fine art of massage?"

Lilith doesn't object, and her mask is not entirely blank -- so Laurence slides from his chair and goes to lie on the opposite side of the bed from Marc. (And indeed, Marc positioned her so that there would be room for all three of them, on the not overly wide bed.) He slides his hand under Lilith's free one, and follows Marc's directions. Some are familiar loosening exercises for holding a sword well. Others are new, such as the light stroking of the wrist and forearm.

He doesn't copy Marc's light kiss on Lilith's palm, though. Laurence can feel her vessel almost blur against his hands, even as she takes a short, quick breath.

Marc asks, "What's wrong, dear heart?" (Laurence does brush his lips against her knuckles, undemandingly, as any polite knight might for a lady.)

"I..." She shakes her head, suddenly gripping both their hands tightly with her own.

"You're safe," Marc says, earnestly. "It's not... not some kind of threat of harm."

Lilith snorts at that. "Well, _you_ aren't. But I think we both know the loopholes."

Laurence can feel the pattern in her words. They are like that of well-practiced sword drills. Thrust to the expected parry, block the expected riposte. A comfortable, predictable duel of words.

Marc huffs, feigning mild offense. "Do you think _either_ of us would hurt you? I suppose I can _promise_..."

Laurence murmurs, "And I can swear..."

" _No!_ " Her knuckles go white upon his and Marc's. "No, that's _not_... That's not what I mean. That doesn't solve... Ah!" She makes a face, clearly frustrated by the lack of words to explain.

It's a frustration that Laurence quite understands. He'd give her the right words, if only he had them, or knew where they hid.

"Solve?" Marc prompts.

Lilith pulls their hands up, with her own, against her collarbone. Laurence feels her pulse faintly. Feels her breath. Feels the light touch of Marc's hand there as well. It is a mirror image.

Slowly, she says, "You are both... distracting. I would not want to..."

"Stint us your attention," Marc suggests.

She nods. Her expression is troubled.

Laurence doesn't think that's all of it, but he doesn't say so.

Marc offers, "There _are_ ways..."

"Marc!" Her voice and glare are indignant, and Laurence is not sure why that merited such vehemence.

Then he's not sure he wants to know. It's nearly impossible to move among humans without figuring out the basics, and his Word _does_ fringe on euphemisms (much as he pushes them out of his mind). But aside from taking turns...

"Oh, dear," Marc says in dismay, while Lilith smothers a giggle. They're both looking at Laurence, so he supposes his face has revealed his own consternation.

He hasn't been Commander of the Host this long without knowing when it's time to turn a rout into a strategic withdrawal. He says, thoughtfully, "I believe... we should stick to hand massage for now."

"Far be it from me to argue with _that_ ," Lilith murmurs. And relaxes, closing her eyes and smiling a bit.

Laurence flashes Marc a very fast, very small smile of triumph. Marc twitches a half-smile, and a nod of acknowledgment.

They don't spend a week on it, but it's a very interesting way to spend time.


	28. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> _(From the original post:)_
> 
> Three things.  
> 1) I blame siadea. 2) I am so sadly un-Christian that, well, sometimes I arrive at similar spots and sometimes I arrive roughly where the luggage does on those "This is the universe, you are here, your baggage is here" t-shirts. I hope that this is at least close, and please forgive anything horribly heretical because I did it in ignorance, not malice. 3) I also hope that this seems to be in character and, um, stuff.
> 
> It's a sequel to Loopholes. (Good gads, am I really having to order them now? Meep.)
> 
> * * *

* * *

"Why?"

Laurence kneels in his personal chapel and considers Dominic's question. Absently, he comments, "People keep _asking_ me that."

"I thought you would have taken that to a priest," Dominic murmurs.

"I did," the Malakite sighs. "It did not... result in the help I would have expected."

Dominic lets the silence stretch. Laurence finally says, "I've been accused of trying to be a Mercurian. You've never said one way or the other, if you think I am."

"Is this relevant?"

"Perhaps."

The Seraph thinks on it. "Sometimes... I suppose that accusation could be leveled. You do seem very concerned with understanding humans instead of simply guiding them."

"How can I guide them if I don't understand them?"

"By example."

"And if they take that example and make something unexpected of it?"

Dominic makes a short, somewhat cranky gesture with his wing. "They are humans. They misunderstand truth."

"So is it not better to understand them, so that one can provide an example they will not misunderstand?"

Dominic flattens his neck-curve. "All right. You are, indeed, leading the conversation in a very Mercurian direction. Does this answer your question?"

"Perhaps." And before Dominic can hiss, Laurence continues, "And the Watchers are even more muddled than Mercurians, with human understanding."

"Archangel Eli, a Mercurian, did not find their crimes justifiable or forgivable. Archangel Marc, a Mercurian, did not dispute my judgment. Why do you do so?"

Laurence regards the crucifix upon the wall. "It's a pity that they are not close enough to humans, that they might be forgiven their sins."

"We are angels. We must--"

"Angels, Dominic," Laurence interrupts. "We are angels, and though I am an angel of God's wrath, I feel that we must not forget God's mercy. And God's forgiveness. And... and yours, I suppose. I hope you do not feel it requires an immediate trial."

For a moment, Dominic rears back in a starting fury -- and then he deflates, dropping into coils beneath his cloak until his head is no higher than Laurence's. "I thought of them. Before the battle. Marc... distracted me."

Laurence's half-smile is wry, as so often is the case these days. "Marc did not distract me, though. And... the authority to make that choice was more mine, I think." He lifts his chin and looks at Dominic. "I was, and am, the Commander of the Host of Heaven. The necessities of the battle dictated that mine should be the disobedience in service to a greater need."

Dominic looks back, and then turns his head to the side, the cloak falling between their faces.

" _My_ responsibility, Dominic."

Slowly, the Seraph nods.

"If you feel you must call for trial, I hope it comes at the end of the queue. You are too worn thin with the trials of Princes and Word-bound."

After a long moment, Dominic whispers, "I am so tired of calling the Commanders to trial."

Laurence lifts a hand, realizes that the move and impulse are very Mercurian, and then touches Dominic's shoulder. "I confess to breaking the ban against communication with them, Dominic. I confess to saying that, in exchange for what they could do to undermine Princely powers and destroy Princely Tethers, I would speak for them when the time came. And I confess... they have been exiles since before my creation. They _did_ serve Heaven, despite the centuries of Outcasting. If they cannot return to Heaven, can they not serve God in Hell?"

"They are not supposed to be spoken to by angels. Novalis' angels are down there."

"Novalis is willful and short-handed for the job she wants to do and thinks we will botch. She'll speak to them anyway, and you're too busy to spare the time investigating the matter. This way, I take the responsibility. I confess to it."

"But... to send them down there?" Dominic finally looks back, his wings and scales shifting under Laurence's hand. "Then they _will_ speak to angels."

"They aided Heaven. Tethers were destroyed that might have provided Essence when we attacked the Princes. Saminga was distracted, or I and Jordi would have suffered more grievous wounds slaying it. Is there no hope of reward for that service?"

"They are in no position to make a _trade_ , Lord _Laurence_."

"No... But Phanuel said that they would have done it anyway, whether or not I spoke for them. I sensed no deception in that."

"Nevertheless..."

Laurence looks up again, at the crucifix. Sadly, he asks, "Must I die, to grant even the smallest pardon for their sins? I am not the Son of God, and I cannot bestow such grace and forgiveness -- but must mercy be bought with blood, always?"

"If MIhr were not so busy, I would wonder if you had been speaking with it."

"No. Just... thinking, I fear. Upon the nature of sacrifice. Please, Dominic. It will give them a purpose again, and a place, and it will reduce the numbers of them who may yet be seeking human beds. They are the outcast and forgotten. Perhaps they can bring understanding to the damned, and an example for the souls to hope for." He pauses. "Dominic, if Heaven will not see the outcasts, who will?"

The Seraph is silent for a long time. "You had thought all this out, in Council?"

"Not all together," Laurence admits. "But... I have prayed for the words to express what is in my heart, and what was in my heart. And these are the words that have come. It is for you to judge if they are enough."

For a long moment that stretches to a timeless span in Heaven, they coil and kneel before the crucifix. Finally, Dominic says, "I will re-open the case. I will require testimony to their actions, both harmful and helpful to Heaven, from the time of their Outcasting onward. Testimony from both those of Heaven, and mayhap the Watchers themselves. In the interests of reining in Flowers, and holding Hell, I will grant them probation _for the purpose of holding Hell secure_. I will assign triads to monitor the situation, and ensure that Flowers does not overstep the allowed contact."

"I offer some of my angels to help your triads."

"Ah." Dominic thinks on this. "Accepted. Thank you."

Laurence smiles. "I thank _you_ , Dominic. I... am sorry I cut at the debate that I thought was going to come upon the Council floor."

Dominic's feathers rustle under the cloak in a shrug. "You apply the tactics of battle and resources. You are the Commander of Heaven. It is your right."

"And my responsibility."

Dominic pauses a moment, with the air of a Seraph who is tasting all the different layers of truth. "Yes," he says thoughtfully. "And your responsibility."

Then he gives a bow of respect to Laurence, and to the crucifix, and goes.

Laurence remains, and his prayers are those of thanks.


	29. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter contains flashbacks.)

* * *

* * *

There's a hatch in the ceiling of the loft bedroom, secure and strung 'round with Force catchers and other protective artifacts. Lilith secures it closed, and stands on the roof, with the wind whipping her hair around. The stars glitter above, with a clarity that she hasn't seen for centuries. Maybe longer -- or maybe it's just the comparison. Light pollution is not gone, but it's much reduced. She suspects that Lightning has some hand in this, aside from the disasters that have so reduced humanity's numbers. But no matter. She is done with those politics.

_And what do **You** want? I thought I was done with angels._

She whispers a Song into the night air. Her wings spread out, nearly invisible in the starlight. They're her true ones, the ones that the basic Song grants, rather than the many, many variations that she's learned, for bat or bird or insect.

No one living has seen them, so far as she knows. She has guarded their appearance as closely as Artemis guarded her nakedness.

They catch the wind, and she lifts off like a silent kite.

_I have my freedom now. Why should I do **anything** You want?_

The world spreads out beneath her, and she is alone in the skies, higher than owls and bats would fly.

Eventually, she spirals down toward a clearing on the edge of a steep cliff. The creek at the bottom is a quiet ripple, the wind shushes through the trees. It covers the faint sounds of her feet on the grass, and the crickets do not break their mating songs. Her wings make no noise at all as she vanishes them.

_You ask a lot of me._

Idly, she raises her hands, winding the wind in them, feeling the touches of stray Forces sliding her fingers.

Idly, she turns, almost dancing in the nature-filled silence, and wraps a Force around her hand.

_And how am I expected to survive? I can't vanish like an angel.  
I don't do whatever it is angels do when they shed their bodies._

Another Force follows, like the ribbons of a Maypole. Another, like the strands of a braid. Another, and she has a spider's web forming in her hands.

_I am human, and I have learned that humans die when their bodies fail them._

She sorts through the Forces now, seeing which ones curl more pleasingly around her skin. Invisible, intangible. And yet she sees them. And yet she spins them out like threads or weaves them like cloth, folds them like origami or shapes them like clay.

The core, the secondary knots, they are second nature to her now. She could bind Forces together very nearly in her sleep now.

_...tell me more._

She stretches the Forces in a cat's cradle. She makes the turns, the twists.

_Why will they accept me? What will keep them from betraying me?_

The Forces are a green mist in her hands. Very nearly done. All she need do now...

_And... You will answer?_

...would be to lean forward, and whisper the Name.

_What if I say no?_

She has not spoken it since before the final battle.

_What if I say yes?_

She does not know if it will even work.

_I understand._

She opens her hands again, and the knots unravel. The Forces slide away, caught in the unseen, unfelt currents even as tendrils of her hair float in the corporeal breeze.

She sinks down, on the balls of her feet, and wraps her arms around her knees.

_I will accept Your bargain, and do Your will._

Lilith stares into the darkness for a long time, until her muscles stiffen and her feet hurt. Then she stands, takes two short steps, and flings herself off the cliff.

All but invisible, the silk of her wings unfurls and catches the air.

The safehouse is east. She flies toward the dawn.


	30. Tethers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This is concurrent with the Veeeerrry First Interesting Times fic, which I thought would be a standalone with no sequels._
> 
> _No. Really._
> 
> _Stop laughing. Meanies. O: <_

* * *

* * *

The phone rings. Even though none of the cellphone towers were working, she plucks it from her jacket pocket. "Ja?"

"Hey, Taha, how's it going? Anything left?"

She switchs to English in return. "The Wall is just fine, Ponz."

"I'm telling you, now's the time to switch over. After it's all said and done, not going to be much prestige headed your way."

"I am not binding to your Prince, Ponz. Verzeihen Sie mir bitte."

"You're being stupid, Taha. You _know_ you're never going to be a _real_ Seneschal. Not like me."

Word-bound. A little dream, considering that there are bigger Words, more likely to survive... But still, the potential power that one could wield. "My Tether is large. I am attuned to it. The binding is superfluous." Go away, Fleshless. Gehen Sie weg. Leave.

"Ahhh, Taha. You don't know what it's _like._ You don't know how it feels to have the power running through you, part of you. Your allegiance to a penny-ante Princess is going to be the death of you."

"Danke, Ponz. Your concern for me is very good of you." Especially while the Final Battle is likely raging even now. Though Lilith, Tahapenes' dread Mother, has not touched this Tether's Essence reserves yet. But then, Lilith is likely by the Lightbringer's side.

"Of course it is. The Prince, he told me that you're wasted where you are. You could be a Knight of Factions, first thing, instead of waiting for someone bigger to come along and skin--"

The draw of Essence fills Tahapenes' mind with a roaring rush, a howling, a keening... No, that's Ponz, on the phone, screaming and screaming and screaming.

Tahapenes holds the phone away from her ear, and wonders what has happened to make the disgusting Shedite yowl like a cat being vivisected. "Ponz! Ponz! What is it?"

The other phone is dropped, by the sound of things. The screaming continues, but with a doppler as the Shedite, or its host, runs.

Mystified, Tahapenes closes her phone and puts it away. She stands, and dusts off her pants and jacket, and resumes pacing the remains of the Berlin Wall. The Essence is returning, and the Tether is not unstable. Whatever happened to Ponz -- his Prince dead, perhaps? -- the Princess of Freedom yet lives.

And Tahapenes still has her duties.


	31. Players

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Staciel chapter

* * *

* * *

She's better now. She doesn't need the drugs so often.

Her Word is still gone, but she is with her master.

Fallen pawns together.

The door to their cell opens without fanfare, and Staciel lifts her head to pay attention. Her master will want the appropriate piece...

Though short, though slight of frame, she plucks a queen-piece from the boxes beside her to represent he who enters.

There is a murmur from one of the guards (they are represented already, five deuce-cards lined up along the wall), and the Archangel replies, "If I lose my vessel to a pair of Word-stripped demons, it's my own fault. Close the door behind me."

Staciel's master finally looks up as well, distracted from the precise niceties of an arrangement of checker-pieces.

With deadly grace, the Archangel steps among the cards and game-tokens, picking his way closer to her Master.

He stops before the former Prince, and crouches down on his toes. For a long moment, they regard each other, and Staciel creeps closer to them so that she will be near enough should her master put out his hand for the piece. Finally, the Archangel says, "I have been told that I am a Player." Staciel stops breathing as she hears the capital letter. Who would have said such a thing?

He continues, "She yet lives, piece in my hand until her preferred Word finds itself in Heaven. It is possible that there is something to her philosophy."

Then the Archangel takes a small, rectangular container from the air, a whisper of disturbance marking its passage. He holds it up between them -- a small magnetic chessboard folded in half to keep the pieces within, no longer than the long-fingered hand of the Djinn who watches him. "When you are capable of playing again, have your countess inform the guards."

Without looking, he moves his arm, a lazy flick that leaves the chessboard in front of Staciel.

She knows her move, and takes it.

The two, Archangel and Prince of her life, look at each other a bit longer.

Asmodeus nods once, a slow and cautious motion.

The Archangel nods in return, sharp and firm. He stands, and sketches a small bow as to a respected opponent upon the dueling field. Then he turns and glides to the door, and out. Again, he has disturbed nothing in his passing.

Nothing but the silent patterns within her master's mind.

Staciel holds out the black queen piece almost before her master has extended his hand for it. He slants a look to the chessboard she holds, and nods approvingly to her.

The hollow place within her is a little warmer, as she moves back to her station by the mattress and the store of pieces. Behind her, Asmodeus stands, and thoughtfully considers where to put the new black queen. Quietly, he says, "A small card, female. Tarot acceptable."

She sets the challenge board in her lap, and seeks among the cards.


	32. Practice Games

* * *

* * *

They crouch on their toes in the room, amid the other pieces, mirroring each other above the set chessboard on the floor between them.

"And what if I win?"

"Then you have taught me something."

The taller one's clothing is new, black and marked with his sigil in red.

"You do not offer my release?"

"I'm sorry you think so little of my intelligence."

Staciel has her own new clothing, fresh and clean and soft. Warm, after the blood-stained hospital gown she had been taken in. The right colors of gray and red.

"Why play, then?"

"To learn."

The Archangel brought them simple garb, the first time. They played, without speaking. Her master nearly won, but not quite -- his attention distracted by the other pieces in the room.

"That's your reason."

"You never learn?"

The second time, they were still silent, but it was stalemate. And her master was less distracted. This is the third visit.

Her master is silent. He advances a pawn.

"There is a new board outside these walls, Asmodeus. New pieces. New rules." The Archangel matches the move.

Long fingers drift above the pieces, and select a knight, jumping it above its protecting pawns.

They play in silence after that, until they are matched with remaining knights and pawns, their kings forced into the roles of protectors and aggressors. It bids fair to be stalemate.

"You cannot Play a game that is ended, Asmodeus."

"It is not over yet."

"On this board between us, no. But think on it. Eventually, you will need to learn new rules, and ancient ones."

"Crude." But his eyes burn with something. Fury or interest, Staciel cannot tell.

"Young. Still, you know there are those who would see you raised as a Player of the new Game outside."

Not looking at the board, her master moves his remaining knight.

The Archangel studies the board, ignoring the burning stare for some time. Finally, he looks up, and his own gaze is unmitigated challenge as he tips his king in surrender.

Then he stands, and sketches a bow. He turns, leaves without a word.

Staciel comes closer to take the board and pack away those pieces. "You won, master," she whispers.

"His position was stronger," her master says, as he stands as well, and goes to move a red king from one corner to the other.


	33. Payment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to "Obligations."

* * *

* * *

Viritrice waits, in the darkened shadows of Perdition. A Geas-token cuts into her hand.

He has a week, this not-dead Princeling.

 

_Nybbas paces back and forth, his glasses sheeting static as he barriers off the Media-feeds that he can't handle yet. One hand worries at the Geas-collar. The other gestures in the air from time to time. His wings, leather-look from the modified vessel, prickle with spikey feathers when he doesn't pay attention._

_Jean types quickly, arranging matters. "How much of an escort do you want? Just ourselves, or shall I bring in some of the more bored Malakim to make the point?"_

 

Viritrice kneels at the window, watching for wings... The right color wings, the deep brown leather. It would be flattering if she could remember anything of him, but so many Impudites hung around Tartarus -- walking batteries for whoever could dragoon them into a project, always short on Essence despite what they leeched from the damned.

Some had red hair. Others not. And maybe he'd changed his seeming when he made Prince.

 

_It takes a day, to sort out what **he** needs to be doing and put it on hold. A day where he can barely type for picking at the Geas-band, and wondering how she'd gotten it. Being annoyed that he hadn't thought to resist harder, dump Essence into forcing it away._

_Jean had said he didn't think she could retain her Vapulan power over the technically-inclined, not with Vapula's Word peeled away... Though Vapula had died before the Lightbringer (and that's irony, oh yes), and who knows what the Symphony might have done in that situation?_

_Not Nybbas. He yanks at the Geas again, and his fox-Cherub -- has to be his, for she's no one else's -- whines and paws at his arm until he lowers it. She wraps her paws around his wrist and licks his fingers._

_"...you're staying," he tells her. "Staying here, where it's safe."_

_It's going to be hard enough for him to face Perdition again, all dark and silent. He doesn't want her to have to see it._

 

There's no way to keep track of time, in the darkness. Viritrice counts seconds. She draws diagrams in the floor. She rehearses her apologies -- and really, so long as the Prince comes, she doesn't mind if he beats her for her presumption. So long as she lives, and is brought out of this horrible darkness. Saved from the terrifying angels and the lassitude they bring with them. Saved from the angels and their black-winged death.

He must come. He cannot be a captive.

It finally occurs to her to pull away the focus-object of one of the souls she tapped, until it gives up all its Essence.

Only a single speck of it. Only a single day.

Six left.

 

_Dawn Essence, and Naioth washes Nybbas' face with her pink fox-tongue before she lets him get out the door. Jean's waiting there, and she whines at him._

_"I won't let harm come to him," the Archangel promises._

_The Cherub tries to smile, and it's almost amusing to see a little redeemed fox-angel having to remind herself to trust the centuries-old, micromanaging Archangel of Lightning._

_At first, it's a repeat of the original trip, dumping them out in Baal's hollow, echoing fortress. Him, Jean, a couple of Ofanim who spin and crackle with purple tinges to their flames. But since Jean's been to Perdition before, the next stage is an Archangel's Song of Celestial Motion, taking them all in an explosion of Essence and thunder._

_For all that Jean's taken this calmly and without side-comments, this display is making a rather potent statement._

_In the moment before dark Perdition ties his heart up in knots (again), Nybbas realizes the statement is for the Lilim -- and not any veiled disapproval for Nybbas himself._

 

Viritrice has satisfied herself that the damned soul hasn't got any new Essence. She's paced. She's knelt in supplication in front of the window.

He must come. He must.

She doesn't have any other options, and it's so desperately dark here. So hideously silent.

If he doesn't come, she will be reduced to building things in the darkness. Objects without purpose, devices without need. Nothing but movement, and the illusion of "blinkenlights" to pretend there's something more.

And then the sky opens up, in a searing thunderclap of a Superior with Essence to spend. A white-hot ring of electricity expands like something out of a sci-fi movie with exploding planets or suns. And left in the center...

Smallish, compared to the initial explosion. Something glowing, orbited by two burning moons.

Her fingernails cut into her palms, pressed against her cheeks. Viritrice wants to cover her eyes, but she dares not.

Dares not look away from the two shapes that soar towards her hiding spot, with the crackling ball-lighting Wheels crisscrossing and spiraling ahead of them.

Dares not look away as the brighter, glowing form pauses and lets the other one go ahead.

White bat-wings, with faint down at their bases. Red hair. Glasses. Something blue and decorous for clothing.

A glittering Geas-band at his throat.

Viritrice stares as he plants his feet on the windowsill. One of his hands holds to the outer rim of the window. One of his wings blocks off the more alarming view of the others with him.

He's scowling, his glasses alternating pure static and near transparency.

But one of his hands is extended to her.

Part of her wants to run, screaming, now that she can't deny her savior is on the side of the angels. There's nothing to run to, nothing to run for.

It's not fair, but maybe it's better than dark silence.

She throws herself into his arms, and holds on tight.


	34. Rebuilding (Content Warning)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Includes non-graphic sexual assault. And I hope I didn't muck up on it.

* * *

* * *

The problem with looking for someone to rescue is that sometimes one does not get the timing right.

From the look of the situation, Lilith was at least ten minutes too late, and possibly more.

On the other hand, there were five of the gang or Gang or whatever they were calling themselves, and only one victim on the ground. Nor had anyone started getting _inventive_.

Probably cold comfort for the woman.

Demons were gone -- and whole swathes of organized crime had been thrown into chaos from Roles and Hellsworn vanishing, or angels showing up to point out that no matter how much you pay to the Church, what you've done is still there for any angel of honor to see -- but humans...

Humans had always had higher heights and lower depths. Only Shedim came close to how wretched humans could be to one another, and that was likely because they crept in and shared brainspace, gravitating to the horrible.

Entirely human cruelty here. Not a whisper of disturbance for the Watcher to hear, if she was even still around. Only the small noises and casual conversation of the watching young men in the technically-closed convenience store.

Just as there was no disturbance, and only mundane noise, when Lilith calmly walked through the door and backhanded the so-called "lookout" into the cash register.

The next one had a knife, but though Lilith was no Ofanite, she was still fast enough to blur into close range and take his wrist while she sent her knee between his legs. The third one might have had a knife as well, but it really didn't matter when she flung number two into him.

Unfortunately, when the third came up from the tangle, he had a gun. She briefly considered shifting vessel or using a Song as she ducked and rolled herself into one of the other aisles. Her long coat did not, quite, tangle around her legs.

She ran to the end, faster than they should have expected, but the wretch had guessed right on the fifty-fifty choice and was at the end where she'd started. The bullet hit the glass of the drinks' display.

Lilith was already wearing gloves, and it was easy enough to reach in and take a large shard and whip it towards him.

It didn't hit. (She wasn't boosting herself with Essence. Silent running, unless that didn't work.) Still, he flinched back and couldn't see which way she went.

Towards the victim, and number five.

He had a gun as well, and a ruthless, callous streak, taking aim at the frightened store-clerk even while he yanked at his pants. Lilith altered her original plans and kicked his gun-hand. While the weapon clattered against the wall (not quite in a true arc to send it to the front window), he met her eyes.

_Control, domination, fear._ His lusts were plain upon him, his need to enslave others with threats and punishment.

She would have liked to kick again and break his neck, but her angle was bad. He punched at her -- a straight line, not a roundhouse, and showing he had some intelligence -- and she blocked it with a side-sweep of her forearm. Her shin caught him between the legs, and that doubled him over enough for her to land her other fist on his neck.

The crack was audible. It made her realize that there were noises that perhaps had meaning, instead of the rush of her blood in her ears and the distant thrum of the Symphony.

Number four, who had been trying to help number three corner her with the gun -- this time in the wrong direction -- was swearing shrilly. Number three, on the other hand, had a tight-lipped silence broken only by exhortations to shut up.

Lilith dropped her coat into the lap of the store-clerk and ran toward number three, crouched slightly (and useful, yes, to be short right now). Her boot-soles made little _thip thip thip_ noises, overshadowed by the swearing man.

Again, bad luck. He had just turned in her direction as she rounded the corner, and the bullet hit her in the shoulder.

She drew on her reserves, on the Tethers that she still had, and ensured that her course didn't alter. Her hand wrapped around his on the gun, and she pointed it straight up. She read it in his eyes, that he wanted her dead.

"I decline," she murmured, and drove her hand up against his chin in a move that really only worked with strength beyond the norm.

The Symphony was jangling from the Essence, and she smoothed it and told it to ignore her Healing Song. The bullet oozed from the wound, to confound some poor forensics officer.

Number four was still around, swearing and sounding afraid because of the shot and the silence of number three. Lilith ran again, back to where she'd left the clerk. Still there, clutching Lilith's coat, and the last wretch hadn't gotten close yet.

Back again. ( _thip, thip, thip_ ) There, the last one. Not the youngest -- that had been two, actually -- but probably legally a minor. He had a knife as well, but he saw her -- black shirt slightly torn, black pants and boots to complete the image, black hair braided flat -- and turned to run the other way. (Still swearing, meaningless repeated syllables.)

She caught him, crashing into his back and knocking him down with her knee in his back. He scrabbled, and she caught his hair -- worn long, in dreadlocks -- and pulled his head back until she could see his eyes.

"If I let you go, you'll owe me," she breathed. He stared back, uncomprehending, and she snarled, "Say it. Say you owe me, and I'll let you run. _You owe me. Say it._ "

His lips only formed the words, but the Geas wrapped into him. Lilith never dealt in hooks. Only true Geases.

She hauled him up by the shirt collar and pointed him at the emergency exit. He fled.

Lilith trotted back to the clerk. Essence use -- probably not smoothed in time if that had been a Watcher, those weeks ago. Blood, including hers, blast it. Gunshots... but it was a bad neighborhood, and she gave herself fifty-fifty odds that no one would want to be involved.

Two dead bodies. Two unconscious ones, probably. One assaulted woman, older than Lilith had subconsciously expected but probably younger than she looked.

Old enough to have gotten her wits about her and gotten to the counter, and its phone. Old enough to be crouching sensibly. In shock enough to have left Lilith's coat (she picked it up in passing) and be staring dumbly at the cut cord.

Lilith cleared her throat, to let the clerk know she was there, and ignored the frightened gasp while she wrapped her coat around the other woman's shoulders. Calmly, she asked, "Do you want them all dead?"

The clerk's eyes held conflicted needs. Annoying.

"You were closing up," Lilith said, and secured a nod. "You can have been here, and we call the police, and there will be hospitals and combing for evidence and questions -- especially about me. You have a good case. Stranger-rape in the process of robbing this place, I imagine. Guns and knives in evidence."

She went on, "You'll have to worry about diseases. You'll have to let doctors poke at you. You'll probably have to endure a trial and some lawyer who thinks its job is to make you look bad, even though your case is good." She wondered if the woman knew all this already.

"Or." And now Lilith really had the clerk's attention. "Or you can come with me, and I'll make sure you don't catch anything. I will mete out whatever justice you wish on them. The mystery will remain a mystery, because you would just say you left before it all happened. The lock would be broken -- no fault to you."

The clerk gripped the phone receiver tightly, her knuckles showing paler. "The... the one who..."

So, in time to keep the others from taking their turns. Something, at least. "I think he's dead. I'll check." She moved in a soft lope, concentrated a moment on the underlying Forces of the body, and then returned.

"Dead." Lilith didn't bother keeping the satisfaction from her voice.

The clerk's hand trembled. "I want to go home," she managed to whisper, and then the shock broke into tears.

Better tears than screaming. Lilith got her to put down the phone. Started to try to get her to stand, and decided that it was time to sing Healing for her. And then again, to ensure that any wretched diseases wouldn't take root. A final time for Lilith's bullet-punched shirt, as an afterthought. She didn't bother muffling the disturbance. Let the angels come.

She broke the front lock, Freeing pieces of it, as she pushed the door open.

The clerk -- and Lilith was going to have to get her name soon -- had a car out back. No one was hiding behind it, or inside. No damage. Some small bit of luck in an evening that was as random as unloaded dice. Lilith put the clerk into the passenger side, gently extracted directions from her, and drove to the outskirts of the town where the trailer park was.

Along the way, she managed introductions. The clerk was Veronica. Lilith went with Una, on the grounds that there was no reason to make things easy on anyone trying to track her.

She got Veronica inside, and aimed at the shower. Then she sponged off her shirt with paper towels. Stiff, dry blood was uncomfortable. She also prowled. The small refrigerator had art-with-dry-pasta on it. There were two bedrooms, both tiny, made livable only because each held a twin-size bed instead of even a double. One was a mess of boy's clothes and dinosaurs, intermingled with some new anime toy line or other. It had a picture of three people -- Veronica, a boy perhaps two or three years younger than the clothing suggested, and a smiling man. Veronica was rather darker skinned than either her son or the boy's probable father. All were darker than Lilith's own medium tan.

Veronica's own bedroom held no further clues than a few more photos of the boy.

Lilith set up a tea pot to boil water. She leaned against the wall next to the shower, and _reached_ with her senses. Need-reading was more of an art than even her Daughters realized.

Soup. Soup would do as a comfort food. With a faint scowl at the stove, Lilith got to work.

When Veronica came out, wrapped in a worn and tatty bathrobe, Lilith placed the tea cup in her hands first and steered the taller woman to the table.

She brought the soup over next, and secured tea for herself before she went to the table as well.

"The boy's visiting his father?" she hazarded, after Veronica had gotten some tea into her. (Still shocky, Lilith estimated, but functioning.)

"N-no. No, John died... in the war. No, Aaron's at his grandparents'." Her hands went tight on the cup.

"I'm sorry." A lot of people had died in the wars that led up to the Final Battle. Jordi was probably smug.

"We were separated," Veronica said, almost a non-sequitur.

Lilith guessed that support checks had stopped coming. Veronica looked to be someone who'd had a string of bad luck, and found herself to be a person with the skills of a partner -- and no partner to complement them.

Residual disgust curled in the back of her mind, but Lilith pushed it away. Not everyone started out with as many Forces as a human soul could hold. This woman had taken what steps she could, clearly.

The silence stretched, until Veronica put down her spoon and said, "What now?" Her voice was lost, strained.

Lilith moved her tea-cup so that the handle was against the heel of her hand. A pointless gesture, but too fast an answer would never sink in. "Someone once said, 'Money cannot buy happiness, but it can make looking more comfortable.' I have a business proposition for you."

Veronica just stared at her for a moment, before finally saying, "I'm no government spy or superhero."

Lilith acknowledged the guesses with a little smile. "I don't need one of either. I need someone who has a life, and a bank account. Not for illegal money laundering. Simply for... untraceable. Or harder to trace. Someone who could own a house, and perhaps a basement apartment." She paused, and let herself look a bit lost as well. "Most of my enemies are dead or imprisoned. But... I have no bolt-hole my... associates... don't know about. I do not like that."

"Most?"

"Most. I've no intention of leading _them_ to a basement apartment, either. Nor... should I need to. They are much weakened from what they were."

Veronica looked into her soup.

Lilith spotted how she was turning green -- no doubt following the links of how "Una" had taken out the five men, leading to one reported dead, leading to the assault. She leaned forward and touched the other woman, singing calmness and clarity before the nausea took over. It was easier than fixing more soup.

Veronica stared. "What..." Even understandable wonder, or fear, could not penetrate the Song more than a little.

"Even superheros may need places to go to ground." It was easier than saying "witches," or "Princesses," or "celestial double agents." Besides, the word had come up already.

"That's... not real."

"You're healed in body. You're able to think clearly. We're both alive. I'm real."

She sipped her tea, automatically. In the Song-induced clarity, she said, "He was really gonna kill me."

Lilith nodded. "I think so."

"You saved me."

She nodded again.

"So I could help you?"

That was cause for being thoughtful. "I was looking for someone to help. I've been looking for the past few days. I found you. However... if I had been there for some other reason instead, I would have helped you anyway." More truth than she had usually required, but the stakes were somewhat lower. And somewhat higher. It was harder to be free of allies than of enemies.

The Song made for bravery. "Who are you, Una?"

Lilith sat up straighter. She let the weight of years and power settle around her shoulders, and echo in her voice. "I am the one who will keep you and yours safe and cared for, and ask for no more than you can give. You, your child, your grandchildren, for so long as your lineage requires protection, and gives fealty."

She had. Her retainers, her corporeal estates' staff, her mortal minions... She had told them what was coming, and sent them to safety. She had spoken to Marc, a risk that was only justified by looking after her comforts, and _their_ funds had weathered the storms.

Now she would have to find them, and see if they wished to renew their pacts. Some new, some passed down from generation to generation. She had forgotten that the agreement did not end with financial security. They were known to Trade, true enough, but if she arranged matters...

"You sound like something out of a movie," Veronica said quietly.

Lilith felt the smile tug at her lips. "I am like."

"What if I say no?"

The echos. A thousand times, _what if I say no?_ From her first question in the garden, the words flowed through languages like a stream.

"Then we take our own paths, and make our own choices, unconstrained. My nature is Freedom, and I will not make your choice for you."

"But... you'll tempt."

"That's also my nature."

Veronica sipped her tea, and set it down carefully. "Are you the Devil?"

Lilith closed her eyes a moment, her smile twisting at the corners. "No. He's dead. The angels fly through the Principalities of Hell and turn it to Purgatory, piece by piece and soul by soul."

The mortal woman listened, in the calm clarity of the Song. "What are you?"

"Something old, who keeps her promises, and does not ask for anyone's soul. My bargains are for Earth, and where souls go after depends on what they do and why they do it."

Veronica looked into her cup. "How much... care?"

"Riches would take some time -- perhaps a few years. Lower comfort, I can provide within weeks. A solid 'middle class' should be achievable in a half-year, I'd say." Lilith reached for her coat, and unzipped an inner pocket. The money was mostly older bills, folded and creased. Change collected from the crisp, likely traceable bills that the ATM had given her from the Lightning-salvaged accounts. She laid it on the table, a bit over two hundred dollars.

"What would I do with it?" Veronica's dark fingers spread the bills out in a fan.

"Deposit it in a savings account. Pay bills. I have more. Report it as a gift on your income taxes. Say a long lost relative found you. Say you helped an eccentric." She shrugged. "This is tonight's. I mostly just need to break the trail. That's what takes the time. Later, you can invest some on my behalf, some on yours."

"If... if I ask why, would you tell me?"

Lilith pondered her own tea. "Perhaps, in time. Not tonight, more than I've said. I dislike having all my resources known, even by those who are unlikely to be threats to me. Even by those who have helped me."

The other woman gathered up the money. "It'll take a while to get a better place..."

Lilith smiled at her. "I don't expect things to change immediately. I'll need to supply you first, after all. Finish your soup, and try to get to sleep before the peace wears off. I'll stay on the couch, in case you need anything."

Veronica nodded thoughtfully, and applied herself. She took the money with her as they said their good-nights.

Lilith lay down on the couch and listened to the mortal's breathing. When it finally indicated sleep, she slipped into the Marches and sought out the dreamscape.

When the Song wore off, Lilith slipped into Veronica's dreamscape, and watched. Flashbacks in fragmentary ways. She stopped them when the 'scape seemed drifting too quickly towards the shattered ruins of Beleth's Tower. She held the woman's dream-form, while her clothing shifted and faded, when only contact stopped the memories from trying to assault her again.

"How real is this?" Veronica asked, close to lucidity.

"As real as you want it to be."

The other woman looked down at herself, where clothing had wisped to nothing. "I'm not... I don't do..."

"Then it's just a dream."

"Oh."

The dream shifted, and Lilith let it guide her into a caress. Hormones and evolution, memetics of rescue and repayment, the charisma of a Superior -- better to resolve it in a dream that would likely be forgotten upon waking.

Later, as they still slept, Lilith whispered tales of long-dead cities and ancient legends, and shaped the dream around them with illusions of forgotten truths.

Before they woke, Veronica looked up and said, "You know..." She touched between her legs. "Having a baby hurt, too."

Lilith was left blinking on the gray Marches-sand. "People are so strange," she commented, as she woke herself to the morning.


	35. Unexpected Errors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that Lilim that Laurence wanted Giri to talk to?
> 
> Yeahhhhhh. Meet Betharan the Elder.

* * *

* * *

Sword practice is not, naturally, Betharan's "favorite class." She doesn't _have_ favorite classes. (Well, perhaps debriefing; now and then the Seraph present stares and recites quickly, its eyes fixed on nothingness as information none of them had quite known comes pouring out. And some of the classes where she teaches -- those have satisfaction.)

But as she gains skill with her short blade, with the tapered waist leading to a narrow leaf-shape, there's a certain satisfaction there, too. It's... like and unlike a Game, played not just in real-time, but in split seconds of move and counter-move -- like the knives she prefers, but the new Word she serves tugs at her, and she cuts the air into invisible pieces.

She's passed to the head of the class, and then the schedule is juggled and she's put in a higher class, where most of the angels are fledges instead of relievers. Where her old class had been alternatively friendly and afraid of her ("but what if she _liked_ being a demon?" a mid-sized reliever had whispered too-loudly, too-close to her to avoid hearing), this one adds some angels who have guarded hostility -- mostly the ones with the darker feathers, but one young Mercurian seems particularly horrified and appalled by her.

Her Lord does not mind that she is a piece (a blade?) in his keeping only until the Game begins anew. She does not understand why any of his Servitors should be offended without his leave.

A trio of new Elohim in the class run interference, though -- _they_ are fascinated by her, and would drive her to distraction if their natures allowed that, for those same natures make them quite sure that she will not break the Pax Dei. Breaking the Pax Dei would be dissonance, shame, a bad play.

This training instructor is a Cherub (its assistant a Kyriotate who can turn into a whirlwind of blades), who is quite perceptive enough to tell where the hostilities are.

Sparring with the Elohim is like casual chess. Sparring with the Ofanim is a whirl of laughter (theirs). The Cherub instructor growls that it's well and good to fight your friends and acquaintances, but they will by _God_ learn to spar cleanly even with those they don't approve of -- and to respect whatever skill they find there. The instructor is probably speaking to the other angels, and not to Betharan. She respects skill.

This policy is what puts her against the young Mercurian -- her greater experience and its greater affinity and skill with the blade make this a reasonable match. Further, it already has its Choir Attunement. (The Elohim suggest that she might get hers as a graduation present, and plot to discover what won it for her fellow Bright of the Sword.) It is normally a simply impossible target, dodging and weaving until it can score a "fatal" or "crippling" touch or until she gets lucky.

(She must admit, the pain these blades impart is perhaps worse than a blade that merely damaged. The first time she kamikazed against an opponent, she wound up flat on the ground with worried near-fledges around her.)

Today, however, she manages to rake the tip of her sword across the Intercessionist's wing -- which it does indeed leave open, as the Kyriotate assistant had been pointing out recently. As the wing jerks and spasms, the Mercurian cries out -- and lunges at her, with Essence singing.

The wing-touch was a non-fatal blow, even non-crippling, but painful. Apparently the angel has snapped somehow. So she defends herself, cooly, and seeks to use her opponent's anger against it. Eventually it will run out of Essence.

Annoyingly, anger is giving it speed and power, putting her on the defensive. Her own wings fan out for balance, dragonfly-like, steel-light made solid bone and membrane. Dimly, she notices that they've moved out of their assigned position and are now the center of the other students' attention. The Kyriotate assistant looks concerned, she notes in one flash. The Cherub's bear-paw holding it back, she sees in another.

She doesn't know -- or, really, care -- if she's being tested, or the Mercurian, or both of them. She doesn't have time to think on it. Duck, retreat a step, parry, parry, duck, parry, riposte and it seems that sparks fly under the force of their blades.

It's clear that the Intercessionist is _not_ going to stop, not going to come to its senses -- gritted teeth and glaring eyes -- without being taken out.

She spends Essence on the strike, but it dodges -- and spends Essence on the return, the blade slicing down against her wrist and passing through with enough pain that she actually cries out, and is actually surprised when she yanks her arm back and there's not a stump for her other hand to cup. The Cherub is calling out "Hold," but she catches a flicker and half-turns defensively from the two-handed attack that is aimed for her head.

Her wing catches the Mercurian in the hand, knocking that blade away -- and as the other angel screams, something washes into her, jangling and painful and _wrong_. She cries out again, a low, sick _ah!_ of shock, and sits down without a bit of the grace of her name and Forces. The jangling fades, ebbing away, but she... was nearly _dissonant_. That was _dissonance_ that nearly touched her core! That was _failure_. The pain in her wrist is nearly eclipsed by the nausea roiling in her Forces. Her vision blurs.

"Betharan? Betharan?" One of the Elohim, flinging its slim form down in front of her before the Kyriotate assistant gets there. "It's... it'll be all right," it sings in tones of worried belief. "It was an accident. No Forces torn. The teacher's fixing it now."

One of the other Powers is peering at her wing. "You'll be fine," it assures, in belief. (Not the strongest belief tones, but growing stronger.)

They don't understand. They don't understand that she was nearly... that she nearly _failed_ , and that only _luck_ saved her. The biggest gamble she ever took was redemption, and she _hates_ to gamble. There was a rule, and she'd thought she was doing _right_... Her eyes won't work. The Elohim blur to pale smears.

She can hear yelling -- the Mercurian, shouting "It's not fair!" and something about "coddling" and "deserves it."

No telling where the third Elohite is, and compared to how sick and horrified she feels, it's not important.

For the first time in her life, unmotivated by Habbalite resonance or anything else, she wants to run from where she is. Wants to find some dark corner and curl herself up into it and hope her Lord does not find her ever again.

She doesn't try. The urge itself frightens her, and she shuts down everything else for a while. It takes hands on her shoulders, gently shaking, before she looks up.

It's another Elohite, green-eyed. More Forces than the younglings in her class (who are watching between her and it with wide, worried eyes). This one wears a sash crossbody, marked with the insignia of the Order of the Sacred Heart, and its lips move...

Calmness. Peace. Like Emptiness, but without the slowing of the thoughts. Intellectually, she is still... _bothered_ , and bothered more that she doesn't feel the shame.

"Just a few cuts, fingers went right back on," the Cherub instructor tells this new Elohite. "Brought it on itself with bad aim if nothing else."

It nods. To Betharan, it says, "See? Nothing permanent. We'll fix this."

"I..." She rubs at her eyes, trying to make the blurring go away faster. The dissonance didn't settle, didn't bind itself in. She wants to be away from everyone. "I'd like to go to the chapel."

The Elohite helps her up. "That's a good place," it says, approvingly. "Maybe even confession?"

She would rather make confession to her Lord, but... "Maybe," she agrees, hollowly.

She leaves her sword behind on the practice field. The others probably think she has forgotten it, but she is aware of it with every step she takes.


	36. The Other Shoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (These chapters are going in "out of order" due to them not being in order in my Dreamwidth Memories. Oops. ...this note will make sense in a chapter or two. As for the chapter, it ends as a preamble to a chatlog that I don't have permission (or a way to ask easily) to post.)

* * *

* * *

"Sir, about the Bright..."

Laurence well knew which Bright is being talked about. He's only got two, and only one of them is in this Cherub's class. "I read there was an incident."

"Yes, sir. Ah..." The Cherub shuffled its paws. "I take responsibility, sir. I thought it would do well to clear the air, settle things with the Intercessionist. I never realized her wings would be sharp."

"Most Bright Lilim have vaguely-substantial wings, yes," Laurence sighed. "But it was not quite dissonance, I believe? It was accident, and in duel. And she's not reported any dissonance during debriefing." Idly, he riffled the paperwork on his desk with a thumb, in case some scrap had escaped him.

"She's going to debriefing?" The Cherub's ears perked up.

"Yes." Laurence tilted his head. "She hasn't missed any of those appointments."

"She's not been back to sword-class. She spends that time in chapel."

"Mmmm- _hm_." Laurence recalled a short conversation, regarding religious affinities. While it would be nice to think the experience had encouraged her to seek spiritual guidance, he knew she was a Game-dagger. Far more likely she'd found an acceptable way to dodge something.

"Should I order her back, sir?"

He shook his head. "No. She would not skip on a whim." The other half of her deep devotion to the rules. "I'll talk to her. Expect her back... when you see her back. I pray that will be soon."

"Yes, sir. I'll pray too. She's an interesting student. Uncanny, but never intentionally disruptive."

Laurence smiled. "That she is. Thank you for the report."

"Sir." The Cherub bowed its head and returned to its duties.

Laurence mused that, as problems went, this was hopefully a minor one -- and he could not have expected his first Bright redemption to go without flaw or flux. He checked his appointments, his Game-dagger's schedule, and when the bells for her sword-class sounded, he left his desk.


	37. Log: Betharan and Laurence In Chapel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a RP log! I hope that the other party doesn't mind it being here. I have stuck it in at the point where it should logically go, rather than with other chapters interspersed. Sorry.

* * *

* * *

The "public chapel" of the Sword is large, in the way that celestial places are large -- it adapts to however many people are there, with a certain minimum largeness. At the moment, despite the dozen or so angels and souls who pray to the crucifix at the front, it's easy to find a bench in the back...

Betharan's wings are flat against her back, and she's concentrating enough on keeping them blunt-edged that she walks very carefully, picking her way to an appropriate back corner. She kneels in front of the bench, to indicate appropriate respect as much as to convey the impression of 'proper' prayer (and thereby avoid being questioned if any are curious), and closes her eyes, silent.

At the entry, a silent shadow leans against the wall.

_Betharan's worst sin...has changed, since Laurence last looked. Before, it was misPlaying once badly enough to incur her Lord's severe disapproval; now, it's having not known a Rule, and nearly broken it and become dissonant by that not knowing. This is echoed in her most ignoble deeds for the week and month, the darkest of the ones Laurence can see._

_At the moment, she's currently in a very_ dark _mood, to Elohite resonance. One that_ is _being felt fully, with only traces of the Emptiness-detachment that Laurence normally resonates off her. Depressed, self-hating, somewhat afraid and_ very _unsure of what else to do... It's not_ quite _as intense as the Elohim likely reported that it was immediately after she'd hurt the Mercurian, but still up there._

Laurence winces quietly. He bends his own head in true prayer for a moment, then goes to kneel beside his Bright Game-dagger, and waits for her to acknowledge his presence.

Betharan is perceptive for a Hellraised celestial, but is doing her best to tune out any other people around her. So even if Laurence isn't muting his Superior aura at all, it takes a bit before she notices anything and glances over. When she does, her eyes widen in visible shock, and then she bows her head to him, quickly but deeply, not meeting his eyes. She whispers, too quietly to disturb the others in the chapel, "Lord Archangel."

<<OOC>> Ryukage says "(No, she's not using 'my Lord'. She isn't sure if she deserves to. [coughs] (Since, in her eyes, there is a _significant_ chance she is flawed enough for him to want to put aside...)"

Laurence murmurs, also quietly, "My Lilim. You're troubled." He does not sound horribly angry, or cold, at least...

Betharan doesn't look up. Her wings are still blunt-edged, though the very tips are sharp to the eyes of the Sword: her concentration is slipping a bit. Her voice doesn't rise in volume at all, without inflection save for submissiveness. (Although her mood _does_ lift a little at the possessive. A very little. He can still change his mind.) "I nearly failed you, Lord Archangel. It was not my action that kept it from being true failure, but chance." Confession and admission in one. No request for absolution, though it's what she desperately wants to be worthy of: again, she doesn't know if she deserves to ask.

Laurence nods, taking her confession seriously, and looking for the right words. "It was not unprovoked, I am informed. I do not think the instructor will allow the situation to recur. I would be displeased if you were again forced into such reactions in what should be relatively basic training."

Betharan bows her head deeper. She whispers, "I thought the Rules allowed for it, Lord Archangel. The situation did not seem unusual. Until the last." (Truth. She's had more violent matches in Game-training, and had to execute her opponent in at least one case. Warding off a blow with her wing, sharp-edged or not, didn't seem like _anything_ she should be concerned about...until the dissonance warning.) "I was wrong. I should not have been wrong." ( _Firm_ belief: she thinks she _has_ to know better, instinctively, or else she's innately flawed somehow. Not a proper, reliable Pawn at all...)

<<OOC>> Betharan has somewhat more Warrior perceptions of _real_ combat, yes. More Swordie perceptions of formalized duels, but more Warrior perceptions of actual non-ritual/formal fighting.

Laurence considers. "You had no reason to understand the nuances. You were not in the classes that dealt with redeemed -- a reliever, who had grown here from its first awareness, might be expected to understand. But it is my error to forget that your exemplary behavior and ability to adapt do not mean you will know what a Heaven-born angel would know in all cases."

Betharan starts at the words 'my error', almost looking up before she catches herself. She whispers, quiet, "But I _should_ have known, Lord Archangel, should I not? If it is a Rule so important that breaking it is dissonant, I should have known. I _did_ know the Pax Dei existed. And I don't know what else I no longer know -- or never knew."

<<OOC>> Ryukage ... also translates that last: "She doesn't know what other Rules-or-lack-thereof she knew from her time in Hell (things like 'when fighting, you _should_ run on instinct and strike as efficiently as possible, no matter how violent it is') have been changed, or what other new Rules exist for her as an angel that she may not have heard of. She's also second-guessing her time as a demon: was it _luck_ that kept her from breaking Rules without knowing they existed back then, not proper skill/talent?"

Laurence says, "The rule is against causing true harm, unconsenting, and it is... a feedback, in the nature of angels and the nature of Heaven. An enforcement and strengthening of the connections between us. And I think you are angel more for the love of a Word than from an intuitive feeling of connection with others -- in hindsight, there is little reason to assume you would feel all the nuances. However, these are matters which _can_ be addressed. I can arrange for one of the teachers of redeemed to tutor you, and hopefully go faster where you do not need instruction, but help you understand the nuances. Would that help, my Lilim?" He tilts his head to look at her more obviously.

Betharan does not move, but her body language clearly indicates that she's listening _very_ attentively. Even if she appears to be confused at why _that_ would be a dissonance-bound Rule. She nods slightly at the end, though, hands folded tightly in her lap. "...I believe so, Lord Archangel." (She...mostly believes it. Although she still worries: that's an _incredibly_ vague Rule-phrasing, in her opinion, but it's obviously a very _strict_ Rule, and therefore DANGEROUS AS ANYTHING. And she doesn't know if there are other Rules the tutor won't cover because it doesn't realize either, or anything. And she doesn't think she trusts her 'incorruptability' any more -- not if she could nearly become dissonant for something completely unconscious. Which makes her a flawed Pawn, and therefore nearly worthless...)

<<OOC>> Betharan did _not_ develop Paranoia. Or even phantom Paranoia. Just. NOThappyGamester. Er.

Laurence thinks, and then puts a hand on her shoulder, lightly. "I am saddened, not displeased with you. If you are unwilling to return to practice... You need not hide here. Perhaps... Would you be willing to stand guard upon the wall? The chances of demonic incursions are... remote, but we would be foolish to abandon the post."

Betharan flinches at 'saddened', although it's faint enough that Laurence might not have noticed if he wasn't touching her. (She's NOT SUPPOSED TO UPSET HER LORD. Period. Not being displeased is a positive, but not enough of one.) She flinches again, more visibly, at 'unwilling to return to practice', and bows her head lower in both agreement and guilt. (...she doesn't _like_ to loophole. Unless it's obvious that that's what her Lord wants of her. But better loopholing than becoming dissonant in truth when luck inevitably fails her...)

But at the suggestion, she blinks, startled again, and lifts her head a little, though still not high enough to look at Laurence's face. "...if you wished it of me, Lord Archangel, of course. ...If--demons _did_ attempt to attack...is that covered by the Rule?" (In other words, is she risking dissonance there?)

"Demons are not angels," Laurence says. "The feedback of harm does not apply -- demons have attempted to follow angels to their Hearts, and been destroyed utterly with no dissonance to the angels. Guard-duty upon the Wall is also... a penance if needed, or a non-denominational opportunity to meditate, and an honorable duty. And," he says, a bit more briskly, "if there were any harassment which risked breaking the Pax Dei, I would not only remove any results of bad luck, but also have strong words with whoever was irresponsible enough to place their own satisfaction over the security of Heaven. I do not believe anyone with Ethereal Forces would care to risk that."

<<OOC>> arcangel says: [I.e., "My Servitor, doing assigned Real Work. You try to pick a fight, and I will personally descend upon you and do the whole Angry Archangel thing."] 

<<OOC>> Ryukage says: [ _Awwwwwwwwwww_! [admires!]]

Betharan listens. Her hands tighten on each other at 'results of bad luck', but she nods, obedient, and says quietly, "Then if you wish it of me, I would be--" (she hesitates half a second, looking for a word that seems right, and settles for erring toward openness) "--grateful. My Lord." (And worries that she presumes too much, but... it needed to be said.)

<<OOC>> Ryukage says: [Translation: She'd be content with that duty, and grateful for both the opportunity to do something that's considered actual responsibility _and_ something that's considered penance. (She's not sure if it's _sufficient_ penance, but if her Lord deems it so, it should be. Right? ...right?) And is tentatively letting herself believe that all this means that she's not flawed enough to be instantly eliminated or given to some other and poorer Player or stripped to Fallen Pawn status. (Even if she is definitely _flawed_. SHOULD HAVE KNOWN. </future Angel of the Rules>)]

Laurence smiles just a bit. "I'll arrange for a Wall-Sergeant to meet you here, around this time tomorrow. You'll have Wall-duties until you feel it's safe to return to normal practice. I do ask..." he pauses, just long enough for her to pay attention, "...that you send me a report, if there is anything about the service that troubles you. I know that you are both an unusual Choir, and unusual within your Choir, and I believe you are likely to err on the side of suffering in solitude more than disturbing me needlessly."

Betharan whispers after the first part, "Thank you, my Lord." At the pause, she doesn't glance up, but does lift her head slightly, clearly listening. ...and winces very slightly as he continues. ((She didn't _mean_ to displease her Lord more with her choice of responses, she just didn't know what else to do, and...)) She nods, eyes closing. "If you prefer it of me, my Lord." ((Reports she can do. Reports she can _make_ herself do.)) "I have not noticed any other problems thus far..." ((...well. She _had_ been thinking that it didn't make sense to not work at all with live blades. Which should have been forewarning that there would be significant, dissonance-bound problems with using live blades, and different perceptions of what is 'consented to' within the boundaries of a practice bout. Which _might_ have been forewarning, had she pressed the question to her Superior or any superior instead of just going with the 'oddness'... [guilt]))

Laurence squeezes her shoulder gently. "I've learned, slowly, to understand that perfection is what we all strive toward. You're learning new things, in a new world, and some of them are very different. I have no intention of taking you to task for matters _I_ did not anticipate -- and no desire to leave you isolated when there is a problem. All right?"

Betharan blinks at the squeeze, surprised, and almost forgets herself and looks up at Laurence. She catches herself in time to keep her head bowed, though, and listens. And nods, quietly, at the last. "Understood, my Lord." ((Stretching the truth slightly -- she doesn't completely understand -- but she'll try, and she at least understands that Laurence doesn't consider this an insurmountable or unacceptable-right-now flaw.))

"Now -- if you wish, you can spend the rest of this period here, or working on a report of the incident in case the instructor's missed anything, or see if your Judge is available. I can have one of the relievers show you the way to the Tribunal, if you've not yet been."

At the second part, she hesitates, uncertainly. A report might be useful, but she _does_ have actual free time later, and... "...perhaps the last one, my Lord? If you don't object? I believe I can find my way..."

<<OOC>> Ryukage says: [[assumes that if Jaddy hasn't taken her on a tour of the-parts-of-Heaven-that-Judges/Swordies-are-fine-visiting yet including its own office (and Betharan hasn't done the typical Council presentation there?), it'd've at least pointed out the Spires and noted that the Tribunal's inside?] Regardless, it _is_ true that she believes she can find her way, it's just that "how easily" is iffier. [grins] (...also, she's _very_ much not in the mood to deal with enthusiastically helpful or curious relievers, which is part of why she's declining the offer right now. [coughs] A less poingy/inquisitive type would be less problematic, though. [snrks])]

<<OOC>> arcangel says: [She may have done the presentation, or not, depending -- she is, after all, not someone _else's_ Lilim...]

Laurence smiles at her, and lets the smile show in his voice. "If I were going to object, I would not have suggested it. I'm sure that if you get lost, you'll ask someone?"

 

<<OOC>> Ryukage says: [Heeeeeeeeeeee. [nods, snickers] Up to Laurence, then, but if she does, her answer to every single question from anyone else of "Do you want to transfer to me?" is going to be "Not unless my Lord wishes me to." Which will be full Truth (except that she verbally leaves out the 'or until my Lord of the Game is ready to Play again' caveat unless someone makes her say it). ...and she'll probably result in various boggled Archangels, but. ^_^

...although, huh, just realized that if she did go before the Council, both Janus and Novalis would probably get a Mercread off her and be able to ID her as "that Lilim who was REALLY IMPORTANT to the Elohite that just redeemed awhile back", and one of them might have thought to tell Sal. Although they might not've. Janus is Janus, and Novy is Busy and also not Sal's Archangel (though she is Jehaniel's). But. [laughs]]

 

Betharan declines to mention the possibility of Laurence having wanted to trap her into making a choice he disapproved of, or simply listing them all for completeness and preferring one of the others. He said that in this language and doesn't sound displeased, so it must be something he believes...

She nods obediently, quiet. "Of course, my Lord."

 

<<OOC>> Ryukage says: [...and, heh, just realized _two_ things. [laughs] Betharan's got at least two classes she's been either failing to attend or failing to do any actual combat in: the sword-class she's supposed to have "now", and the knifework-class she's teaching. More if she's in or teaching other cel-combat classes, which she might well be. (The ones she's teaching, she's been getting her assistant teacher/s to do any actual cel-combat necessary; the ones she's playing assistant for, she's been trying to dodge participating in cel-combat with. And she hasn't been as good a teacher lately as she used to be.)

 _She's_ going to assume that Laurence knew about all of them before he came here -- faith in Superior omniscience! -- and... I think she's going to assume he's pulling her from all of them, yes. If he didn't know till resonating her (am sure it showed up on her ignoble deeds) and still has other plans, though, it might be a good idea to tell her now... [laughs] Or at least to allow her to continue her "vacation" till tomorrow, but make sure the angel who comes to collect her for Wall-duty gives her different orders. ^_^] 

 

<<OOC>> arcangel says: [Laurence will be fine with pulling her from all of them if she's not teaching well. He'll ask her for a report on when she feels qualified to go back to those classes, later. She clearly needs time to sort her head out, and Elohim are good for head-sorting often enough...]

(And since she's not finding the solace in chapel which _he'd_ most approve of...) Laurence stands, so that the most easy route to the door is open, and offers her a hand up. "If there's reason you'll miss debriefings, or the non-combat classes, send word to the appropriate angels or souls when you can."

<<OOC>> Ryukage says: [Awwwwwwwww. [nods] Makes sense. [grins]]

Betharan glances up when Laurence rises (not high enough to see his face, but enough to see more than his feet), so she does actually notice the offer. And is startled at it, but accepts, rising carefully to her feet. (Though her eyes are still lowered.) "Understood, my Lord. I do not predict such, though." (...she was already slacking on her other responsibilities. WILL not slack on those too. So it'd have to be some kind of _really major reason_ for her not to go to one of those, and she can't think of any...)

He nods, and then -- realizing that she's unlikely to see it -- says, "Then it is but a contingency. When you feel up to it, I would like a report of the incident from your viewpoint, but that can wait."

He escorts her to the front, and makes sure to aim her in the right direction. Then he hesitates, and says, carefully, "I am not as good with words as a Mercurian. To come close to dissonance, unexpected, would have shocked many of Purity. Including myself. You... _are_ dagger in my hand."

(That last has... the tense of free will to it; if she _wanted_ to go, she would not be prisoner.)

 

<<OOC>> Ryukage says: [... _awwwwwwwwwwwwww_. [admires!]]

Betharan murmurs, "Understood, my Lord." (And makes a mental note that that goes first on her priority list after speaking with Jada-dan.) She clasps her hands behind her back, beneath still-blunted wings, as they walk, eyes still downcast.

When he starts to speak again, she blinks and listens, attentive. Her eyes widen at the explanation, though, and after a half-beat to process it, she bows her head deeply and whispers, in the angelic tense of utter sincerity, "Thank you, my Lord."

(( _Definite_ reassurance. Not completely sufficient -- she _shouldn't've_ gotten dissonant in the first place, and that's a flaw; plus, Laurence's phrasing implies that he's describing a hypothetical, not something that actually happened, which is perfectly appropriate for a Player of the Game but also implies that it's less acceptable in a Piece -- but _definite_ reassurance that she is not flawed enough to lose her place in the ~~Symphony~~ Game.))

 

Softly, he replies, "You're welcome. Now -- go find your Elohite if it's in Heaven?" And smiles. (A little sad, a little... fond.)

<<OOC>> arcangel says: [He was hoping it would help, oh yes. And may have her Redemption Tutor discuss other matters, such as some of his attunements that take away dissonance from others, if they're not covered in basic orientation.]

 

Betharan nods, quick and obedient -- she does know a dismissal when she hears one. "Yes, my Lord." And turns to leave, and make her way toward the Spires.

<<OOC>> Ryukage says: [ _Awwwwwwwwwwww_. At both pose and OOCing. [pets Laurence] (And, _hee_. Probably a good idea, yah. [grins] Even if they are covered in basic orientation, the reminder might still be good... (Honestly, I think she'd feel less guilty if she _had_ become dissonant and been able to have it stripped -- by more merciful Superior means or by more appropriate Divine Absolution. >.> Because, y'know. Dissonant. Rule clearly and cleanly broken. BAD BAD BAD _AUGH_ BAD BAD BAD, but... this way, she's just convinced that the line is so _fuzzy_ it's impossible to be sure if you're Playing within the Rule or not. Heh.))]

 

<<OOC>> arcangel says: [As a note -- which Betharan might or might not have picked up on -- Laurence is _well aware_ that his Word Is ~~Law~~ Rules when he gives orders. Even if he didn't mean it as an order. So he tends to phrase suggestions carefully, or as questions.]

 

Laurence watches her go -- but fades back into the shaded area of the entry, lest his presence trouble her. Next . . . a Mercurian to talk to, perchance.

 

<<OOC>> arcangel says: [And poor guilty Gamester. I have a feeling that there's going to be a Mercurian called onto the carpet and asked a lot of mild, gentle questions by Laurence doing Gregor impressions. Or Vetinari ones. Or both.]

 

<<OOC>> Ryukage says: [Awwwwwwww. [hees, nodnods] I think... hm. Betharan _is_ at least able to tell the difference between a dissonance-binding order and what isn't, having spent five centuries (give or take a couple decades) serving a _Demon Prince_ with the same dissonance conditions (and currently serving an Archangel who has only thus far given her orders or directions in angelic, with the tense-advantages therein). However, she'll treat almost every direction as an order unless she believes her Lord _wanted_ her to play Loopholist, instead of just trusting her not to need dissonance to enforce obedience. [grins]]

 

[[nodnods, pets her] Betharan guilts remarkably easily for an EloDjinn. [snickers]]


	38. Bleeding Edges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this... rather far after the prior chapter, I think? But I'm going to insert it _here_ because putting it so far after is too disjointed.

* * *

* * *

Normally, Jada-dan is delighted when it visits its Sword-Lilim, Beth-haran. Normally, she is pleased to see it.

Normally, it meets her after her classes, weekly -- it asks permission of its Archangel, weekly, and has been granted it.

This time, however... This is _its_ office, not her quarters in the Sword's Cathedral. This time, there is guilt that drips down her face like blood. This time, when it goes to embrace her (and the emotions of shame and desperate hope hit like hammers), she holds herself back, folding her wings away.

The story is told in what is nearly a typical way, from Jada-dan's professional opinion. The content... less so. Much less than typical, and it winces that it had not thought to ask her more about her automatic mild contempt for "newbie training swords."

Its own misjudgment, from seeing other warrior redeemed and their own opinions about dirty fighting versus rigid training. (Jada-dan is Elohite. It does not disagree much about the uses of dirty fighting. But it is not a warrior, and had never thought beyond the practice bouts and their implications within the Pax Dei.)

And when confession is finished, Beth-haran is yet tense and worried, guilt-washed, her aura of sword-steel nearly tinged with red to Jada-dan's sight. Her emotions are still slicked with self-doubt.

It sighs, not to make her feel worse, but to show empathy. "I wish you'd let me hold you," it says, quiet and matter-of-fact. "For my own sake, you understand. Subjective, but I don't think you'd come to harm from it, or any others."

"My wings," she whispers, looking to where one of them looks thin and brittle. "They're _sharp_."

It considers the matter, and turns, putting papers aside on its desk until it can sit in the very middle without knocking anything over. Then it reaches out and pulls her, gently, to join it.

It's not for the mimicking of corporeal recreation that it's chosen this position -- and it smiles faintly when it sees the realization. Her wings, so unlike those of other Brights (of the prior limited sample, at least), are close to rigid at times. And sharp-edged or blunt, they form a tent over Jada-dan, their tips against the desk.

And now it answers her, quietly, "So were your horns, when first I knew you."

* * *

Natalio, though a young Mercurian of the Sword, took those last three words seriously. Sword-bound angels did not sulk. Especially not when their Archangel showed up and quietly asked their teacher if he could have a word with one of the students.

Natalio was going to have to talk to _someone_ about how the three Elohim in the class were acting, though. Far too cool, far too biased toward the wretched Lilim. (It couldn't see how anyone tolerated that... unnatural Daughter. Couldn't they see she wasn't devoted? Couldn't they read something in her, the way Natalio had read her unfailing loyalty to her demonic service?)

"Sir!" It stood straight, wings at parade position, in the middle of the office.

Laurence sat behind his desk, his own wings a deeper shadow around his human seeming. "Natalio. Is your grudge settled now, against Beth-haran?"

Natalio was not an Elohite, despite the lack of gender. It had to work to smooth its face back to proper respect and formality. "Sir, I must report her to someone, and my instructor has not permitted me leave-time to go to the Tribunal."

"Report?"

"Yes, sir!" It nodded once, short and certain. "Sir, it has not given up its demonic affiliations!"

"For the Game?"

"Yes, sir!"

"I see. Why didn't you stop the match when the instructor called for it? The blow was crippling."

Natalio said, "She didn't take the weapons seriously, sir. I couldn't have been sure she wouldn't strike out... And she _did_!" It clenched a fist, remembering the pain and worse, the way something had cut into its Forces, grating her harmonies over its own, making it drop its blade.

"You couldn't have dodged a counter-attack?"

There was, really, no response to that that could be spoken in Heaven, save, "I... could have dodged. I think." It was better at that than she was at striking, usually.

"So you did not need to put your hand in range of her wings?"

"But... She does not serve your Word properly, my Lord!"

"How not?" Laurence tipped his head to the side, arms folded on the desktop.

"She does not _love_ the Word! She... she loves the Game, and the Game alone!"

"You fear that I had missed this, when I redeemed her?"

Natalio dropped its eyes to the floor. "I... I have heard that Bright Lilim, and other redeemed, go through a phase of..."

"Big-eyed brainlessness, I've heard it called," Laurence supplied.

"Yes, sir."

"Mm." The Archangel considered it for a long, long time, and Natalio concentrated on not shifting its pose or twitching its wings.

Finally, he said, "My angel... You are young. You are of my Word, and we do like to be the edge that severs the wrong from the right, the filth from the pure. But to do that, our judgment must be clear, and our strokes must be made with care. Did you not see her relationship with her Judge?"

"It's... not as strong as it should be, my Lord."

"Not as strong as you deem it should be, granted. Nevertheless, she does visit it or it visit her, upon a weekly basis, thus far."

"I... did not know that, my Lord."

"Mm." Another long pause. "And you thought to hurt her, to force her to show her true colors? Or to punish her?"

Natalio opened its mouth to reply, and then shut it again and looked at the floor, vaguely hoping that something might arise from it and swallow a smallish Mercurian. Finally, into the waiting silence, it said, "Yes. My Lord."

"Is that your place, my angel?"

"No, my Lord."

"Your actions have uncovered a gap in her knowledge, this is true. She was nearly dissonant from your actions, and dissonance... is her worst fear. It will take more time, now, to rehabilitate her, because of the way we discovered this weakness. And -- it is true -- I can't think how else we might have found it. Still." Ebony fingers, shaded with a paler seeming, tapped on the desk. "I would have no objection if her former Prince redeemed. I would sponsor his Word. I would return her to his Service, Bright and Cherub."

Natalio's head spun with the very thought.

Into its confusions, Laurence added, "Consider, my blade, that I may hold a dagger in trust for another and be not troubled by it. Dismissed. Return to your lessons."

Natalio managed to bow. It managed to move out the door, carried by the clear Orders.

But in the whirl of confusion and shame at the rebuke... it did not understand anything save that it did not understand.


	39. Cushioning the Shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Not the best of titles. But. Fic drawn from a log!"

* * *

* * *

Pillows are plentiful. Where once Jada-dan wooed a prisoned demon with pens, now it seeks to salve her fears with various pillows. Patchwork designs work best -- they don't show the rips as much, when it piles them over Beth-haran's wings where she lies on the bed. It can kneel, their hips together, and rub her shoulders and neither of them need to worry about the edges of her wings.

Jada-dan is far more concerned than it lets on, to her, that she cannot keep control of the edges. They should be blunt when she wills, and sharp when she wills, not this constant flux that leaves them hair-thin with her stress and tension. Her brush with... rule-breakage... consumes her mind. And while it could yield to her fears and play chess with her, without touching or coming in range -- it does not think that is optimal in the long run. Angels should not fear to touch angels.

For once, it might have tried to seek out Creationer aid -- but few of Creation want anything to do with Judges, and even fewer of those are at all willing to cope with a Laurentine's troubles when the Orphans are still heart-wounded. And of the ones who will speak with Jada-dan, none of them seem to have advice to heal a Game-dagger's brittle scars.

Flowers... is busy. The Glade's party has the feel of shore leave combined with focused care, as the Servitors of Novalis try to help Orphans, blessed, and their own fellows who have been taming Hell. Jada-dan is desperate enough to seek advice from near-fledge relievers whose wings are gone translucent and ignored -- but they are of Flowers, and in the end, mostly useful for pointing out those who make and repair pillows.

So Jada-dan does what it does best, and while its poor, tatter-heart love is away guarding the Wall -- for that duty is penance and meditation, and if ever a demon should show, nothing in the Pax Dei would prevent it from being smote -- it sits in its office and scribes a report for the Lord Commander's desk. Then, having done what it can, it frets and tries to soothe her while it tries to maintain its other duties in Heaven -- the cross-referencing of demons and crimes, the ones on trial who implicate others, or exonerate them.

(Mercurians of Judgment work to untangle the webs of demonic relationships, and any with patience and a feel for detail piece them together -- mostly Elohim and Cherubim, though some Ofanim whirl amongst drifts of reports in some movement-based order.)

It brings its work to her quarters, when it can. Even when she is guarding the Wall, it wants to be somehow near.

It is deathly afraid that she is fragile, that she might flinch from the dissonance, blame it on angelic nature, and seek to return to her former state. Its harried, busy Archangel rebuked it for bias -- and more importantly, assigned it to keep her from Falling, by any means necessary.

Jada-dan's vessel holds a gun. It will send its love to Trauma before it lets her Fall, even if it must leave her vessel broken and bloody upon some Tether's floor.

It dismisses such last-ditch plans from its mind, more often than not, and works upon the trial transcripts, curled amidst the pillows in Beth-haran's quarters.

The knock upon the door is... odd. Light and rapping. Jaunty.

Jada-dan uncurls and answers, blank with puzzlement and worry. The one beyond -- another Power, garnet-eyed, with an expression of perpetual cheer that fades as it takes in Jada-dan's more serious mien. Unlike many of their shared Choir, it has clothing -- vest and slacks, short boots and gloves -- all in an oddly familiar cut and shade of gray. Where a Superior's sigil might once have rested, there is only a blank space.

Of a sudden, the clothing cues resolve, and Jada-dan permits relief to wash over its features.

A bit more solemnly than its initial expression, this new Elohite says, "Boss said the Sword wanted me for something?"

"I'm Jada-dan. You are the other former Servitor of the Game?"

It nods, and says wryly, "Fallen Pawn, admittedly, but Servitor." It offers a gray-gloved hand. "Salathiel, currently under the Wind."

_And is it another angel held in trust?_ Jada-dan wonders, clasping the proffered hand, and jumps the conversation, knight-like, to the heart of the matter. "I hope you can convince Beth-haran that she's _not_ 'fallen,' then. She'll be coming back from her Wall-shift soon, or we can go meet her. I thought that it would be a good idea for me to stay here and hope someone showed up when I could explain matters." Someone. Anyone. Angel or Archangel or blessed soul. It had to trust the Lord Commander would find someone who could understand the pain in her heart. It's glad that this is an Elohite.

Salathiel stops in mid-nod to stare. "Beth-haran? _Betharan_?"

Jada-dan pauses itself, to re-evaluate its Choirmate. _Redeemed_ Elohite. "Yes. Ah, will this be a problem?"

It continues to stare. "Beth-haran and _ex_ -Gamester in the same sentence? Granted, not her choice, but still. If we're talking about the same person, I thought she was _dead_." It pauses and blinks, shifting tone subtly. "And if we're talking about the same person and she thinks _she's_ a fallen Pawn, er... I may not be the best choice to argue otherwise. Maybe convince her that it doesn't matter if I'm lucky, but while I do tend to be lucky, I don't like _relying_ on that."

Jada-dan blinks in return. "At the moment, we don't have a _better_ option that I know of, and with your current Choir and prior experience of her -- assuming we mean the same Lilim of the Game -- you may have an advantage." _I have not found any others to help. There may **be** no others. Even distraction might help._ Surely the other Power could feel Jada-dan's contained desperation. "Do you see a problem with going to meet her, then? Or waiting for her to return?"

Face nearly blank, but voice wry, Salathiel states, "I see a problem with her having to deal with me without forewarning. I went Renegade after working with her. If she approves of me automatically right now, something is _extremely_ wrong with her." It pauses a beat. "Besides whatever's wrong with her now. Game-loss, I assume?"

It understands that much of her. Hope is... perhaps cruel. Jada-dan ruthlessly shuts it up with the desperation, and explains, "She nearly broke the Pax Dei by accident -- her wings are unexpectedly sharp at times, especially when under stress. The brush with dissonance affected her more badly than anyone realized it would."

Salathiel blinks, and then winces. "Ah. Yes, that would do it..."

Jada-dan continues, because it is important not to fixate on matters overmuch, "She's been dealing with the loss of the Game... quite well, once she redeemed. She considers her Archangel to be a Player." Pointedly, it looks over its shoulder at the stained-glass window in Beth-haran's quarters -- the silvery gray and red chessboard, with a sword superimposed upon it.

" _Laurence_?" Another blink. "Huh. That... might work. For her, at least. _Odd._ Although the _Words_..."

Jada-dan says, "She had seemed quite content, until the incident." It sighs, then returns to the more pressing matter -- for Salathiel has not refused aid. "Should I go inform her of your presence, then, and meet you in the main chapel to report on the reaction?"

"That might be best, yes." Salathiel coughs. "Also... if she asks and it'd help, you can tell her I _do_ realize I was an idiot. Not that I wouldn't tell her in person, but I don't know if the timing might make that more useful." Wryly, it finishes, "She'll understand. Or she should, at least."

Jada-dan nods in return. "All right. Here, let me show you the chapel."

Salathiel follows, showing bemusement. (Jada-dan marks the emotiveness, noticeable even for a Windy speaking to a Choirmate.) "I wouldn't have thought she _could_ handle any Word but the Game... Or that she'd be more flexible than _I_ am about it." He snorts quietly. "Although if it's been building for a while..."

With its own eyebrows lifted to indicate curiosity about the logic, Jada-dan replies, "As noted, she seems to regard Laurence as a Player, for what that's worth." It considers a moment, sorting rumors and reports. 

Into the pause, Salathiel says, "That'd help, yes, but..." It trails off thoughtfully.

Jada-dan adds, "I believe he is attempting to understand that mindset, in order to reach others of the Game."

Salathiel's expression of boggled amusement is either worrisome, or repressing something far stronger. " _Really_? I wouldn't've bet on _that_ happening even _before_ I learned to hedge my bets. Apparently she does have an eye for Gameplayers... Still, _odd._ "

Again, Jada-dan twitches its eyebrows up, murmuring, "I wouldn't have bet on it either, but once we started talking in Notre Dame..." It trails off as it checks its fellow's emotions -- bogglement far stronger than it's showing, amusement likewise, and both at the idea of the Archangel having Game-sympathies now. And relieving on two levels, _worry_ for Betharan. The glimpse into Salathiel's psyche is deep, and revealing -- Jada-dan sorts through the reactions it might elicit, in that flash of _**understanding**_.

With some rue (that worry, finding logical expression), Salathiel says, "I _knew_ I should've asked about investigating who was being held in Notre Dame." It adds, with a grin, "Assuming 'we' is you and 'Haran, and not you and the Sword, anyway?"

Absently, Jada-dan replies, "Yes. Once I managed to access the correct files, I began to pay her visits. I have some hope that I helped her decide to redeem." _Is it useful to provoke **that** emotional response? Is it fitting?_

Thoughtfully, Salathiel asks, "And she was fine without the Game? I wouldn't have thought she'd even be _functional_ without it."

Still working through the implications of reactions, Jada-dan says, " _Fine_... No, not really. Blank. Empty, I suppose." 

"For her, that could count..."

It makes a decision. "You're very emotive for an Elohite."

Salathiel blinks, then laughs -- restrained suitably for the place, so that the signs of its amusement do not carry _too_ far through the halls. "I've been told that, yes! It's useful!" It flashes another quick grin, its red eyes glittering bright with amusement.

Gently, Jada-dan pokes Salathiel in the side. "As a Judge, I'm going to have to watch that you don't assume it will be useful without actually considering the surroundings and circumstances." Its voice is carefully mild and tolerant.

The poke makes the other Power eek, cheerfully. "But that's part of the point." Its next smile is more the usual understated Elohite expression. "It defaults to being appropriate or useful often enough that it's a good habit to keep, since I _can_ yank myself up short or switch mental gears when I have to, and I do notice when I have to. I've had practice."

"All right. But, as a Judge, I may... poke you about it from time to time." 

"I suspect I can live with that. Safety nets are useful things, aren't they?" It's nearly a _chirp_ , of amusement, that sentence.

"I find so." The next archway is that of the main chapel, the core of the Sword's Cathedral, and Jada-dan changes its own mental gears. "I'll go tell her that you're... you. And that you admit you were an idiot, if she asks or it seems useful data."

More somber now, Salathiel nods. "All right. I'll wait around here, then?"

"Yes. thank you." Jada-dan inclines its head in grateful acknowledgment, and goes to find its Lilim. The hope, though still placed within its proper box as potential bias, is stronger.


	40. Chapter 40

* * *

* * *

Betharan's wings are folded against her back as she walks. She could fly -- but there are so many people here, so many blessed souls and little relievers. They might not realize that her dragonfly wings are buzzing a warning against coming too close. And so she will stay grounded, with a piece of her mind always and ever blunting those wings.

A form in the crowd, shining pale Elohite with amber eyes, waves to her. It threads its way through to take her in its arms without hint of worry -- and she lets it, for her surprise at seeing it was reined in, and she concentrates again. 

Jada-dan tells her, "I have good news, odd news, and possibly... Well, not quite _bad_ news." It sounds... relieved.

Betharan blinks at it for a moment, repressing any urge to twitch that her wings might have. "News?"

It is efficient in its summary. "Firstly, there is an Elohite to speak with you, once of the Game. Oddly, it is from the Wind. Potentially disturbingly, it knows you -- its name is Salathiel."

She might once have protested that anyone would be brought in to help "fix" her -- but she is an angel-piece now. She can tell that she's misPlayed, that she misunderstood the Rule. She knows that her misunderstanding mystifies born angels. And she knows that Jada-dan has been seeking advice. That it is Wind, and that Jada-dan would seem to approve, is indeed odd, and makes her frown for a moment. But all this is incidental flutterings at her mind as the name penetrates, along with Choir and former allegiance. As shock tangles with anger, she bursts out with, " _What_?"

Jada-dan is unfazed, naturally. "Salathiel. Its reaction to your name has certain parallels. It advised that you should have forewarning of its identity. It says it _does_ realize it was an idiot."

"He was supposed to be _dead_... I assumed... He went Renegade _again_?" The calm Elohite words sink through her roiling emotions, and finally make some sense. She settles her wings flatter against her back. "He does realize that? Hmph. That's something. _Still._ What's _he_ doing here?"

The Judge shrugs faintly, only detectable because it maintains contact. (And is that because it wishes to read her emotions better?) "I have no idea whether it went Renegade again, or simply took a similar path to your own. It had thought _you_ would be dead, for some reason. As to what it is doing, hopefully _helping_ you, O dear-to-my-heart Bright. If not, I will personally kick it out."

She still does not understand why it cares about her so much. It is normally calm and sensible, a partner and friend. And then it will do or say something like that, and she feels confused and adrift upon the sea of its bared emotions, unsure how to navigate them or even understand her own feelings toward it. She steers out of that confusion, to the distraction of _Salathiel_ , her disobedient student who had been not quite clever enough to elude her -- shaming her with his rebellion, and shaming her further that he could not pull off his escape without being caught.

She forces her wings blunt again, forces them to lie flat. "He's supposed to _help_?" she asks, and then mutters, "Although I should talk to him anyway. If only to find out why he's not dead. Still."

Jada-dan wraps its arm around her waist, as if her wings were harmless feathers or intangible light, and not sword-edged dragonfly blades. "So, let's go find out. I'm curious as well."

Her wings are blunt. They must remain blunt. She does not want to see its paleness marked by blood... She remembers to nod after a moment. "Where is he?"

"Waiting in the main chapel. With, unless I misidentify the sounds as I was leaving, _cards_."

Once, that might have merited a feather-light smile, scanty enough to perplex even the Powers. "Mmhmmm. Sounds like him."

And they walk, a path she knows well enough to follow even when she is worried about the knives of her wings against her... friend's, lover's? Her companion's arm. When they get to the dimness of the chapel, Jada-dan points out the other Power -- clad in game-gray and holding cards, or a notebook, or something shaped that way.

As she steps toward her once-student, once-target, she barely notices that Jada-dan has let its arm slip from her waist. There is only a distant feeling of its hand against her spine, releasing her as a falconer releases the falcon.

Salathiel looks up with garnet-red eyes, and those, at least, have not changed. Part of her would deny the feeling of electric connection. Part of her, that was forged in an Archangel's hand, simply accepts it.

She will see which part has the right of it.


	41. Spectators

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a back-and-forth with one of the co-authors of the thing who... is not on LJ, Dreamwidth, or AO3 to ask for permission to post their chapters in here. *grump*
> 
> Thus, a summary. Laurence redeemed a Lilim of the Game (alluded to in prior chapters: Betharan the Elder). In the depths of Hades, other angels found her former apprentice, Salathiel, who attempted to run Renegade from the Game -- and whom she caught. He redeemed to Wind. They're... very emotionally connected, and are testing the bounds of what the "no non-consensual violence in Heaven" celestial physics will allow...
> 
> I think I'm missing some of my IT chapters, or they're out of order. This chapter may move around if I find the prequel chapters. (I've already found _one_ of those...)

* * *

* * *

The angel who spins into his office is an Ofanite, a new fledge. "Sir! Sir!" it cries. "Your Lilim -- she's _fighting_!"

Choir and pronoun identify _which_ of his two Lilim is fighting, and the tone states _true_ fighting.

This is either good, or very bad indeed. Laurence says, "Who and where? Report."

"The _tournament_ ring, sir! And with an Elohite wearing gray!"

"Thank you." It's his own Cathedral, and Laurence snaps from one place to another with a single furling and unfurling of his wings.

There's a crowd by now, of course. All Choirs, and various relievers who hover far enough away that it's clear someone's told them to _stay out of range_. Some human souls, too. Laurence spots the form he was hoping to see, and slides through the others to get to that one's side.

In the ring, his blade-winged Lilim has just kicked her Elohite opponent nearly out of bounds. Out of bounds by a foot and ankle, actually, but it rolls and leaps back for her before anyone bothers to point this out. Both are bleeding from several cuts, and bruised. One of his Lilim's wings is rent, and as the pair come together, the Power's knee comes up against the flat of it. The crack is painful to hear.

The Elohite in front of him... Laurence uses the resonances his status gives him, and sees that Jada-dan is quite aware that he reports to two masters now, for all that Dominic has not officially placed him in service to the Sword. He also feels the Judge's worry and hope -- the latter stronger than the former.

Laurence murmurs, "This is going according to... predictions?"

Jada-dan nods. "Yes, sir. And going well, I think, but I am glad you are here."

That crack is from the Wind-Power's head meeting the ground. It gets back to its feet, wobbling a little. From Laurence's point of view, wobbling more than truth, and his estimation is bourn out when Betharan is the next to go flying -- a judo move that adds a line of blood drawn down her leg.

She cuts the rest of the pants-leg free, dodging, and throws it in the Elohite's... (ah, Salathiel, that was the name) ...in Salathiel's face, blinding it briefly and letting her score what is close to a heart-shot, ripping down its side as it twists.

"I'm glad I'm here as well," Laurence says quietly. "I think I'll ask Michael to drop by. He should enjoy watching."

Michael does.

So does Janus, who calls out encouragement and advice, along with some of the noisier relievers.

 _I have been spending far too long trying to understand demons, even with the goal of convincing them to become angels,_ Laurence thinks -- and steps forward to shout encouragement of his own.

He's sure that one of them will wind up having to stop a true death-blow, eventually -- and he will stop it before anyone actually loses a Force -- but it is truly a glory to see his Lilim in action.


	42. Eyes of a Child

* * *

* * *

When Aaron was just past eleven, his mother got a new job. It was a weird one, because it seemed to involve her staying home a lot, and then going off for a day or two and leaving him with his grandparents. They often had a new car after that.

But they moved out of the trailer, and into an apartment. And then into a condo. And then into a _house_ , with a swing set outside and a new bike in the garage.

And a separate key for the basement door, and rooms in there which were locked away and he'd never seen beyond when the carpet got laid and the walls painted. There's a bathroom, and a bedroom, and a little sitting room thing. Then Mom moved furniture into it and never opened it again.

But sometimes his mom vanished. When she came back, she smelled like perfume and new cars, and had old money to deposit. After a while... she's his Mom. Don't other moms have jobs? His is just... a little more secretive. She said she acts as an agent for someone who likes privacy. It's nothing illegal, nothing to be ashamed of. Just an eccentric.

He was 14 when he heard the laundry running, and went downstairs into the basement part that _does_ open -- the washer and dryer.

Though the first thing he noticed was that the closed rooms... were not. The door into them was open. Light came onto the landing at the bottom. By now, it was as if the cement itself had opened up.

A woman -- caucasian, dark hair, really... impressive, in a way that he was only barely starting to notice -- poked her head out of the laundry room. "Hello. You must be Aaron. Is your mother home?"

He shook his head. "No. Um. She's with Gran. She's... not doing well."

The woman frowned. "Is it urgent?"

Aaron shook his head. "It's... she's sick. She's not at the hospital." _Yet._

"Hm." The woman looked away, hand to her chin thoughtfully. "Well, I'd better stick around till she gets back. Would you like some popcorn?"

"Uh..."

"I've got a spare computer in here. We could play that MMORPG thing. The new one, with the catgirls."

Aaron felt his eyes going big. " _Sure_!"

*****

When his mom got home, they let him keep playing while they went upstairs. It was great.

His Gran got better, too.

And somehow, he got a game account -- but only if he'd gotten good enough grades. His mom said that was the deal.

She said that a lot, really.

*****

At sixteen, Aaron got a car from his mom. It claimed to have over two hundred thousand miles on it, but it ran like a dream.

She took his keys away the next month, when he didn't get home before two in the morning.

He stomped around, and wound up down in the basement, sulking against the locked door.

It didn't open.

*****

When he was sixteen and a half, though, it did open while he was down washing his stuff. In his underwear, which should have been mortifying, but the woman (just like he remembered her) simply gave him an appreciative look and said, "Nice. Runner's build. Is your mother home?"

He pointed up, torn between pride and embarrassment and therefore speechless.

She smiled and waved, then headed up the stairs.

Aaron finished putting stuff in the dryer and managed to get back to his room without being seen. But by the time he came down, the woman was gone, and his mother was alone in the kitchen, doing the financial sorting she always did when money came in.

"Um... Who was that?" he asked.

"Call her Una. Or Lady Una, if you want. It... fits."

Aaron had to think about that for a while. "Thanks."

The door stayed closed when he went down to get his clothes out of the dryer.

*****

When he was eighteen, he told his mother that he was going to quit school, drop out in his senior year, join the army or get a job and get his nose pierced.

"You are going to college," his mother snarled, slamming her hand down on the table.

The argument went worse from there.

Finally, he slammed out of the house and just drove in any old direction into the night.

He was at a red light when a woman leaned forward, her elbows on the front seats, and asked, "Where you headed?"

Aaron jumped in the seat and the car jolted forward a few feet before he slammed on the brake. He whipped his head around, staring into a pair of green eyes that glimmered like a cat's. "Ah... Un... Lady Una!" he managed to say, recognizing her.

"Mm-hm. Your mother was worried. Light's green."

He wavered through the intersection and into a dark parking lot, where only the movie theater was still lit up. "How..."

"Lean to the side." She slithered up between the front seats to get into the passenger side.

He'd never realized how short she was, before. "You're in my car," he pointed out.

"Well, yes. It's where _you_ are, after all. So what's wrong?"

"My mom thinks that I have to go to college."

"And you don't want to?"

"It's all so..." He gestured with his hands. " _Pointless_. It's just more of the same! And for what? To go into debt and get a job flipping burgers anyway?"

Una put the tips of her fingers together beneath her chin. "Your education is paid for," she said, simply.

"Er."

Into his startled silence, she added, "There are many intelligent people who succeed without going to college. There are many average people who do likewise. There are many people of both types who fail, for lack of what it might have taught them. There are many who fail despite what college taught them, or who failed to learn the right things. There are many who succeed. But."

He listened to her rich voice in the darkness, and saw her eyes still glimmered when they caught the light.

She continued, "If you do not educate yourself somehow -- by college or on your own -- you will be prey to those who use the uneducated. You will be a thrall, and perhaps without enough resources to even choose whose thrall you will be. The more knowledge you have, the more choices are available."

"You want me to go to college too." He couldn't keep the sulk out of his voice, even though it made him feel like a kid again.

Una shrugged. "I want you to know what you choose. Because there will be consequences. Some things will be easier if you go to college. Some things harder. I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm not saying you're right. I don't tell the future in such detail."

"So... why are you in my car?" _**How** are you in my car?_

"Your mother was worried you weren't thinking about your choices. I've promised her nothing but that I'd ask you to think. What you choose after... You don't need to be bound by her choices. You can walk away from her. And me."

"What..." Aaron swallowed. "What did she promise you?"

"We have a deal. For her aid, I offer my protection and assistance to her and her family, unless or until the pact be broken." Her eyes glow, and it's not just shine from the parking lot lights.

"What are you?" he whispered.

"Nothing who will claim your soul. Nothing who will hold you prisoner. Something old who keeps her promises -- as I told your mother."

"And... what do you want of _me_?"

She tilted her head, smiling. "You could continue your mother's work on my behalf. You could help me in other ways. Sometimes one needs retinue. Sometimes one needs a guard. Sometimes one needs a student."

"Student?"

"You have potential. You would be not thrall, but thane. However, for that power, I'd want proof of the ability to study." Her grin was bright. Infectious.

"College."

"It'd suffice."

He dropped his head down a moment, sighing. Then he looked back up at her. "You want me to get a doctorate?"

"Only if you want to."

"Okay."

"Wonderful," she purred. "There's a great club down this way -- turn left three blocks down."

She kept him dancing half the night, but when she brought him home, his mother hadn't even waited up.

*****

"I took art classes for _this_?" Aaron griped, down on his hands and knees with chalk.

"Yup," Una agreed, perched on a high stool in the corner of her basement. "Watch the hand -- that's smearing."

"Dammit." He went back and corrected the smear.

When the pentagram was finished, he stood in the middle of it. "Now what?"

Una slid down and walked to the edge of his design. "Now we make you a sorcerer who owns his own soul. You've got the incantation I gave you?"

He fished it out of his jeans. "Yeah."

"Good. On the beat of three." She moved her hand up and down. One finger, two fingers, three fingers...

They began in unison, and he didn't stop even when the chalk lines began glowing.

*****

"We're in the middle of the woods, at midnight, on my birthday... why, again?"

Una giggled. "Because you only turn five fives once. Here, let's try this way."

He followed her, even going down on his belly, and eventually they looked through bushes...

The Faerie Queen and her Court danced beneath the moon, and Aaron watched with all his heart like smoke inside his chest. Only Una's grip on his arm kept him from joining them.

When they'd gone, he stared up at the lightening sky and then at his teacher's face. "But... they..."

"They're predators, too. Beautiful. Humans need to be able to handle them on their own, without calling on higher powers."

"Higher powers?"

Her expression was a blank mask as she looked toward the dawn. "Angels."

*****

"This is Ralinda. She needs a place to stay."

Aaron looked from Una to the skinny, bruised young woman next to her. "And mom said no?"

"You'd be better-able to protect her."

"What's after her?"

"Nothing too immortal. But shoot it in the eyes if you can."

Aaron grimaced. "Thank you, teacher, for these tests that you bestow upon me."

Una laughed. Ralinda flinched a little. "I don't expect it to catch up to her before I catch up to it. But she needs someone nearby tonight."

He looked at her, and wondered where she'd come from. Gently, he said, "I'll show you the bathroom and you can get a shower."

*****

_This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy..._ Aaron didn't waste breath, running toward the noise that only he could hear. The car wouldn't go any farther, not in this underbrush. _Where's my flying car, dammit! I want my flying car!_

The trail of destruction was at least easy to follow, when he got to it.

The bodies didn't make him happier.

When he got to ground zero of the disturbance, he saw the pig first. Giant, squealing, at least the size of a bull. (He'd had to sacrifice a bull once. It left an impression.) It had fur and tusks the size of his arm. The hooves looked sharp. It was trying to knock down a tall tree where...

A winged woman was in the tree. Her left side was mangled and bleeding. Aaron thought he could see something ropey dripping from her side. Her face was streaked with tears, and she was chanting... something.

Aaron remembered Una's lecture on angels. _Avoid._ And, _If you can't avoid, don't show them you've got powers._

The pig snorted, turned around, and Aaron realized he was upwind and it had a good sense of smell.

He already had his rowan-wood wand out. He held it in front of himself, and made the warding sign with his other hand, hissing the incantation.

The giant pig reared up, screaming, and backed off. It tried to charge him, but he kept his focus, and it shied away again.

The... angel... called, "Keep it busy! I'll call help!"

"Good idea, that," he muttered. He really only needed one hand to hold the ward. He pulled out his cellphone and pushed buttons.

The phone rang. The pig squealed. The angel chanted again.

Una answered. "Aaron?"

"M'lady, help. Giant pigzilla, wounded angel, and she's chanting."

"Oh, Hell." One could always hear the capital letter when Una said it. "I'll be right there."

The pig turned away from him, and charged the angel's tree.

There was an explosion of spirit-noise, twice as loud as what he was expecting.

Una appeared in front of him, in ninja black, and snapped, "Mindshield, fast."

Aaron sang the five trigger-notes in an undertone, and saw the green haze shimmer around him. For more protection, he ducked behind a tree.

But he looked out the other side, where a short, skinny guy dodged the giant pig's attack -- then pulled a huge broadsword out of thin air and whacked off the animal's head.

It collapsed in gore. The man was un-touched by the fountain of blood, from dark clothes to dark hair. The sword... vanished again.

"Sir..." The wounded angel fell out of the tree, and somehow the new person blurred to underneath her, catching her before she hit the ground.

Her wounds... faded, as he held her. Aaron formed a silent whistle with his lips. Someone was _really_ good at that Song-spell. He couldn't even hear the Essence from it.

The not-so-wounded angel said, "Sir, there was someone else -- a man who distracted it."

The man swung her to her feet, and she stood as if she hadn't been about to bleed to death or worse. His clothing showed red now, though. He looked in the direction the angel pointed... and froze.

"Home now," he said, and the angel nodded and vanished. Aaron focused his spirit sight, and saw her white-winged form in the air before that faded as well.

From the other side of the tree -- a bit further away from it, as if she'd been trying to draw attention away from Aaron -- Una said, "Laurence."

The man's face was... a mask of wonder. Aaron wasn't sure if his face had ever looked so awe-struck, even when Una showed him his first spells. Even when Ralinda had said "Yes" after he proposed.

Una walked toward the man -- presumably Laurence -- picking her way over broken underbrush and splashes of gore.

He stood there, until she stood before him, and only then he reached out a blood-stained hand and touched her cheek -- or maybe only traced the air above it, because the angel's blood didn't come off on her paler skin. He whispered something, and Aaron couldn't hear it.

She replied, and all Aaron could hear was her voice, low and troubled.

More clearly, this Laurence said, "No, I've not 'come to my senses.' I still want--" He broke off as Una laid her fingers against his mouth. But he lifted his other hand, and cupped her shoulders. She took a half step toward him; he took a half-step toward her.

Wings, huge and feathered in ebony, unfurled from Laurence's back and wrapped around them both.

Aaron could no more have stopped watching them than he could have stopped watching the Fae, those years ago. Could no more have gone from there than he could have said no when Ralinda wanted a family.

Finally, from behind the gigantic black wings, Aaron heard Una's laugh, and then, clearly, "Tag, you're it!" She appeared, somehow, darting away -- looking over her shoulder and laughing.

The black-winged angel flung himself after her with a laughing shout, and then there was disturbance as they both vanished.

Aaron shook his head and made his way back toward his car, unsurprised.

He wasn't surprised when he got there and found Una sitting cross-legged on the hood. There was some blood on her clothing, Aaron thought, and on one of her wrists, but none on her face.

Aaron told her, "You're not getting blood all over my seat, right?"

Una laughed. "You've got a towel in there, right?"

"Yes." He got it out and draped it over the passenger side seat.

She plopped into it, sighing, "Malakim just don't think of the mess after they catch someone wounded. It's slightly endearing."

"If you say so, m'lady." He got into the driver's seat and started up the car, then bumped along, heading back toward the road. "Are we going to have more lessons about angels now?"

"The day one stops learning, one might as well fall into a grave, Aaron."

"I'd better not stop, then. Ralinda'd kill me."

Una smiled. "So true." She adjusted the seat and her seatbelt. "Well, the first lesson about angels is that they come in more than one type, which they call Choirs..."

Aaron paid attention. The world was always bigger than he realized, when Una started talking.

He liked it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "the one with the catgirls" -- this is an in-joke, a MMO adaptation of a card game.


	43. Reunions

* * *

* * *

His servant's invocation was frantic and stuttering, shaky with a vessel close to death. Laurence sent a manifestation there even as he checked on the others with a thought -- and was less than pleased. An entire hand of the Sword, reduced to Traumatized angels and one direly wounded survivor calling for help? Young, all of them, but still alarming.

The threat was ethereal, and bestial in its power. He dodged its attack, drawing a suitable weapon from Scabbard and beheading the thing, returning the blade with a mental note to clean it later.

"Sir..."

He spun and used the resonance of the Wheels to be in time to catch his Mercurian as she tumbled from the high tree-branch. Healing was next, and replenishing her Essence, for her vessel was close to death. He had a feeling that only her Choir Attunement had allowed her to survive at all.

She reported, "Sir, there was someone else -- a man who distracted it."

He swung her to her feet, looked in the direction she was pointing as she looked at him with her face showing relief and young worship. And then he froze when he saw who stood there.

"Home now," he said, orders in his voice, and his Servitor nodded and used her replenished Essence to ascend.

The woman (he'd worry about gender questions later) said, "Laurence." 

He stood there, unable to think of what to say, as she walked toward him. Her expression gave no clue to her thoughts. Only when she was before him, close enough to touch, did he raise his hand to her cheek -- pulling back just enough when he saw the crimson of his angel's blood there. "Lilith," he whispered.

She half-smiled, sadly. "I'd hoped you'd have come to your senses by now."

Firmly, he said, "No, I've not 'come to my senses.' I still want--"

She put her fingers against his lips. (Real, she was real, and not some Song-spun illusion.) He moved his hands to cup her shoulders, ignoring the blood that would get on her tight, black clothing. He took a half-step forward. She did as well, to meet him, and then she was against him and he was aware of his vessel in ways he had not been for some two decades. He manifested his wings, furling the pinions around them both as he gently took her wrist and moved her hand from between them.

She let him -- the gift, freely offered, that made his breath catch -- and he dared touch his lips to hers.

Warmth, and chocolate tinges. A surrender that sent his hands trembling lest his grasp tighten beyond her Word's tolerance. He knew full well that his skill in the duel of lips and tongues was wanting, that he was a rank amateur compared to even the youngest of Creation's Orphans... and yet she cooperated.

Breath was something even vessels needed, and finally he drew back enough for that. The look in her eyes was... torn. Even he could see it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and it was all he could do not to kiss her again.

"What?" she said, after a heartbeat. "Been practicing?"

He snorted. "No."

"Well..." She looked down, her fingers lightly drifting over his shirt, gentle pressure on his collarbones. When she looked up -- perhaps a mask, perhaps not, but certainly a smile full of mischief. "Maybe I should set a challenge."

"Oh?" He lifted an eyebrow, playing along. Lilith made it easy to play along.

She pushed gently at him, and he released her shoulders and loosened his wings. Her smile was nearly familiar from before the Final Battle as she touched her finger to her lips, and then to his nose, took a step back, and called out, "Tag, you're it!"

She dashed off, and he could not keep himself from a shout of laughter as he launched himself after her. It was the taste of her, the warmth of her touch on him, that he used to focus on when she Sang herself away -- and he followed.

***

Lilith let him catch her. Laurence had no illusions about that, even as he flung his arms around her and felt her twist -- but not twist away. She laughed instead, and he furled his wings at the last moment to cushion them both. When they had landed, she lay amidst his ebony feathers, her arms over his shoulders, and his hands...

He noticed that she was not wearing exactly the same thing. She'd clothing-swapped or vessel-swapped, sometime in their midair, teleporting game of tag. So his hands met bare skin at her shoulders now, and her turtle-necked shirt had a zipper that led down to her navel (zipped up), while her arms were covered in opera-length fingerless black gloves.

It hardly mattered, save that he couldn't nip at her neck and had to aim for her jawline. Her scent, her taste, the feel of her against him, the sound of her voice. All sorely missed, and only now he realized how much.

He'd never considered her other than a threat, before the Final Battle. Never considered touch more than comfort.

Or perhaps this was a greater comfort for a greater need?

The part of his mind that was not rejoicing (her arms around his shoulders, her fingers brushing his feathers, she had not fled in truth) remembered Council meetings -- Eli from before his unexplained absence, with a shaken Elohite huddled against him, under his wing. When Laurence had sent a questioning Song of Tongues, the Mercurian had sent a mental message back. _Touch-hunger. Can you imagine never being able to trust someone to be that close to you? Factions messes up people nearly the same way Lust does, sometimes._

How much loneliness? How much pain? How much of her evils had she wrought in truth and how many with Lucifer's resonance twisting her? How many simply to maintain her life, to preserve the possibility of that final blow?

Even now, she kept her secrets behind shields like oil on black waters, or obsidian mirrors.

He drew back a little, to see her expression -- and met eyes of darkest jade, pupils wide and... anxious. One of her hands moved, fingers through his hair, and then to stroke along his cheek and jaw. And then, she pulled it away a little, fingers curled, and hesitated.

He propped his elbow on his own wing (and didn't wince at the mild pinch of it), the better to wrap his own hand around hers and gently bring it back to his lips. She let him. He whispered, "White my feather-roots may be, but I can only care, not understand."

She blinked away sudden tears, smiling up at him. "But you get closer all the time." And yet, grief was in her words. Mourning.

"Is this bad?"

She smiled through tears, near a grimace but too well-trained to elegance to achieve it, and pulled their linked hands to her cheek. "I fear I change you. I fear..."

He let his face be near hers again, with his own hair sliding down over their hands. He listened, remembering how confessions had been torn from his heart by a silent, shining Elohite who only waited.

And, as Jean had been, Laurence was rewarded. "I fear what you do to me," she breathed. "What I make of you. What I am made by you."

Her hand slipped free of his and went around him, her arm pressed against the base of his wing. She pulled him tight against her, and he did not resist. Her whisper was admission that could only be made in a confessional booth -- even if it were only made of feathers. "How do I let your weight upon me? Why can I not put you from my mind, even when I know I am not good for you? Why do you not _hate_ me? I knew how to be with you before."

_Knew how to blow a kiss and run so that even Janus could not have caught you,_ Laurence did not say. He murmured his own confessions. "I would move, to thy wishes... I want to protect thee, wrap thee within my wings. Fight for thee, battle beside thee, and fence with thee upon the practice strip."

"Why?" she asked, with her hands fisted in his shirt, and before he could answer, she sobbed, " _Why?_ "

And like ice that flashed to steam beneath his hand, her shields parted.

Curiosity alone, he might have resisted, but not his own nature demanding to know honor.

The first, the most blazing wound and anguished triumph, was a blade that bit into a Balseraph's back and the press of a Word that shattered her lover's soul.

It hit him, just above his heart, locking his voice into his chest. Her honor unfolded around him, deeds ill-done and shining actions, gray choices that mirrored each other across the scales of her soul. And the first threaded through all the others, stretching down like a net.

She was -- and he was surprised that he was not surprised -- human, refined in immortality. Human, folded again and again like a damascus blade, with more human choices than any mortal might achieve.

_Perhaps this is why mortals and angels should not dally,_ he thought, in a wide-eyed daze. _She doubles back on herself..._

He remembered the other resonances, and bent his mind to those channels, catching glimpses of confusion and a heart that second-guessed itself -- and then the shields closed again, like the Red Sea upon the Egyptians.

She trembled against him, her face buried against his shoulder and neck. He cradled her, slowly realizing that she feared _him_. Feared him, yet did not flee.

Laurence had a horrible vision, that she might expect an end to their attraction in blood and a vessel's death. That she might _give_ him that, without resistance, even as she allowed his hand to guide her body from time to time.

Even more than before, he had an inkling of how not-Lilith such an offering might be -- and how entirely Lilith, at the core of her that even she did not strive to understand.

He shifted his weight, and -- with only a little wing-pulling -- rolled them to their sides. It was more equal, though he still wrapped his wings around her shoulders as well as his own.

"We... keep _meeting_ like this," she said after a time, and he read some guilt or apology between her words.

"Better than not at all." He supposed that mortal humans might be distressed, that near-intimacy of the body could open her heart-wounds. He sighed, and for a moment, felt as though he were the elder; heart-whole, Heaven-born, and with an age of freedom to care in his life. "I can't approve of all your life, but it's a rare _angel_ whose purity is unblemished. Rare and young. Even I've chosen to bend what I thought I was, for the sake of what had to be -- and with all hindsight, would do it over again."

Lilith shifted against him, and moved a hand, pushing his feathers about gently. They fluffed with goosebumps. She muttered, "The roots aren't _showing_ white..."

"Ha." He ducked his head and nuzzled at her face until he could stroke his nose-tip up and down hers. It made her smile, and then freeze with second-guessing her own actions, if he identified that heart-rent mask aright. He kissed her forehead. "I am _not_ some new-made reliever to be reshaped."

With a low voice, she retorted, "I was the First Fallen's consort. I'm no new-fledged Gamester or Fateling."

He pursed his lips against her forehead, thinking. "And I," he said finally, but letting the strength of his Word rest in his voice, "I. Do. Not. Fall."

"Mm." She curled her arm around against his wings again, her hand over his shoulder.

He answered the next obvious approach with the sure parry. "And I do not think you could or would twist me sufficiently for Stone to call hunt against me."

"You don't _know_ that," she riposted.

He considered his answer. "Perhaps not," he allowed. "I suppose, then, we should have a spotter."

"What?" Her nose bumped his chin as she raised her head to look at him. Her wide eyes narrowed quickly. "If you suggest that meddlesome _Lightning_..."

_What an odd thing to come to her mind,_ Laurence thought, but said, "I was thinking of Trade."

She shivered, ducking her head back against his chest, and he wondered if that were a shiver of entire _badness_.

He nuzzled her forehead again. "I think... someday, we will want to resolve what we are, together. What we make of each other, and if it breaks us or gives us... layers. Folds."

"Hm." She curled a finger back to stroke a feather. "Damascus sword. The white must be on the inside."

He laughed softly and hugged her tighter.

Eventually, she lifted her gaze, and when he dared to brush his lips against hers, she only shivered again and held his shoulders tightly.

They practiced kissing, with an odd, distant urgency of bodies that was tempered by the awareness of _time_.

When she finally said she had to go, he unfurled his wings and kissed her hands, and said nothing at all of the hints he had seen in her virtue.

His Servitor had, after all, explained the situation to his Heaven-side instantiation. He could not find it in himself to berate her for the creation of a free sorcerer, who ran toward danger -- and even less, to have seen the fiercely-held scrap of honor that wreathed it.


	44. Splint or Crutch

* * *

* * *

In a Mercurianesque fit of turnabout, Laurence sits on the edge of Jean's desk. Jean acknowledges him -- and his pose -- with calm gray eyes, and goes back to the screens and keyboards.

"Advise me," Laurence finally requests. "I have seen Lilith, after this score of years. She let me past her shields, briefly."

He has all of the Elohite's attention now -- or at least the forefront of it. Jean's hands are off the keyboards, though background screens still scroll. "Interesting."

"She is human." Those three words, with a weight of Truth and implication in angelic.

"You can continue to care for her in the specific as well as the abstract?"

He sorts through memories. "As... as humans go, she is... _more_. Older. The gray tangle of humanity, writ long. And if she has scars and gaping holes in her honor... They are the dishonor she knows, and most of them seem to be for the sake of her cover. How would I dare to despise her, or chide her, when she wrought dishonor out of that God-given need?"

"You have free will," Jean murmurs.

"Do I, Jean?" Laurence runs his fingertips down the matte black links of his second oath. It never weighed heavy on him, but since the Final Battle, it has been as light and thin as a foil decoration. The first oath holds its customary denseness, but it, too, seems gentler. "Does any Malakite?"

"If Malakim did not, there would never be hunts against those who choose madness."

"Perhaps free will is not so simple. A sword may be drawn or sheathed, or some amount of each." He frowns as the simile turned in his mind, that only a drawn blade would have true freedom of movement?

"Yes," Jean acknowledges. "It breaks down when you move beyond the obvious. I believe that free will is more complex, as well. In any case -- you find her someone you can love?"

He's been avoiding that word. It tangles with his detestation of the Princess of Hell. It confuses him vastly, as he really only understands the love of God and his Superior, the love for his Servitors (like children?), all Heaven (like family?), humans in general (or is that respect?). And it's a word that she has been careful to avoid, he realizes.

"In what sense?" he asks.

Jean puts its fingertips together and looks into the shining cage of fingers and hands as if there is something there. "In relationships of that nature, we must make our own senses, and definitions. What an Elohite might call a romance could be barely comprehendible to an Ofanite or Mercurian."

_What is a thousand years of knowing Knowledge as one Archangel among many, compared to knowing one's ancient sibling, created breaths apart?_ And it has been as long and longer since Raphael's sacrifice. Time enough for a young Malakite to think it "long ago." Laurence is glad that Jean does not raise that stormcloud gaze, and trap him in the awareness of _time_.

He looks away. Softly, he says, "I don't know why she..." He pauses, and adjusts the sentence's stance. "She said she did not understand why she cannot put me from her mind, even when she believes she's not good for me. Why she lets me... catch her, I suppose."

"Perhaps you offer her Freedom from responsibility." Jean's eyes are only eyes, now that it does lift them. "If she does, as you say, view many of her actions as Princess in the mode of dishonor, it might be a great temptation to lay down what senses of morality she has, and trust yours instead."

Laurence points out, "That is not how some Lilim have explained it. I've heard my Word called the freedom of slavery, or _thing-ness_ , when I went scouting amongst the prisoners." It had been illuminating, and he had been unable to deny their view had validity. Not all angels could suit all Words.

"I did not say the concept would appeal to all her heart, if I am even right. The Word has facets, as does human nature. However, clearly you fill some need in her, whether innate or from Hell-born infection. Her actions may be instinctive manipulation, but I would not think that choice would be honor-neutral enough to escape you, if it were deliberate."

"Not deliberate... on the wounded side of her soul's scales, I think. That she changes me, and can't turn herself aside entirely." He frowns. "Can't wear a _mask_."

"Real vulnerability, then."

"I think so." He pauses, and then, into Jean's patient waiting, asks, "What should I do?"

Now it is Jean's turn for thoughtful silence, for a time. "What I would do... is nurture the need. She is contrary, a predictable constant, and the form that takes is unpredictable. She has great power, and is currently a loose cannon, with only the most tenuous of information threads leading back to Heaven -- and those are too fragile to put tension on, lest she snap them altogether. It is no bad thing for Heaven to have one of our own within her defenses, and to maintain that wall's breach."

"I should... _use_ her divided heart against her? _Addict_ her to being vulnerable and... and _helpless_?" Laurence cannot keep the appalled horror from his voice, or from the notes of the words.

Calmly, Jean deflects the thrust. "I said it was what I would do, in Heaven's interests. Whether you could even carry it off, not being Elohite yourself, is debatable -- especially as it would create or maintain dependency, and therefore might not be in _her_ best interests."

"If she is human," Laurence says carefully, "what is in her interests _should_ eventually converge upon Heaven's, in the, ah, aggregate."

The Elohite's smile is calm, small, and approving. "You listen and remember more than your image suggests."

"You are my advisor. I note your advice."

"Mm. My advice then, for _you_ and not myself."

Laurence listens.

Jean looks at him, with the gaze that suggests Laurence's Superior nature is not shielding much to the Power's native resonance. "Do not exclude Trade; that relationship is old and has some trust to it. Do not expect to 'fix' her quickly. Do not... do not expect simplicity from her, and perhaps remind her that she is _not_ as angels are -- if she does surrender responsibility from time to time, into trusted hands, then that does not mean she has surrendered entirely, world without end. And you would do well to remember that."

Laurence lifts his hands. "It is gifts that she grants, that I may pull her to me -- or catch her in a game of tag."

Jean nods. "And yet, I underline it. For angels, it can be a great honor to be taken for granted. To know that we are stable enough that others can rely upon us as vessels rely upon air. And we rely on others, likewise. But Lilith is no meek angel."

Laurence rubs the edge of the desk with his fingertips. "I wonder if the Lightbringer took her for granted."

"He was a Balseraph who advocated that humanity should be the toy of demons, and kept a human concubine at his back. If he had not taken her for granted, without reward or regard... then he sought his own death, rather than carry his final defiance of God to its ultimate conclusion."

Laurence's wings fluff out. "You say that as if he would have won." Unthinkable. Utterly unthinkable.

Jean's eyes are those of an Elohite, calmly and constantly sorting the odds, the chances, the patterns of the universe. "Michael's confidence to the contrary, the battle was more even than I liked. Without Divine intervention... one might as well have rolled dice."

"God doesn't play dice with the universe."

"Praise be." Jean rarely bothers with the outward signs of faith, but those words are heartfelt. "And indeed, there was already a Divine agent to intervene."

_One who gave all that she was, all that she had made of herself, to a single stroke of a blade,_ Laurence does not say, nodding to Jean instead. _Sacrifice. Making sacred. And she is no redeemed, with the raw wounds sealed into thin scars that fade in the Light of Heaven. She will not come here, to rest as a Saint might._

With a sigh, he says, "Thank you. I have much to think on."

Jean nods in return, and Laurence goes from his advisor's office to muse on that advice. He is yet the Lord Commander, and the final responsibility must be his. He hopes he can answer, again and still, the faith that the Lord has placed in him -- as well as the faith that Lilith seems to want.


	45. Kingmakers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sure there are some chapters that might get inserted before this one. I strongly suspect that the "chapter" before this is from another author, and, well, no permission. Think of it as _in media res_ , I guess. >_>

* * *

* * *

" _Shadow game?_ " Michael demanded, as the Wind-Gamester headed off to its Sword companion.

Laurence said, "You have no idea."

Janus muttered, "Me either. So spill. We can do politics with some other instantiations."

Laurence sighed, and glanced around. The crowd that had gathered to watch the duel was mostly still present, and he didn't need _more_ rumors floating around Heaven. He waved an area of silence around the three of them.

"Shadow game," Michael quoted. "Spread throughout Heaven."

Laurence nodded, glancing over to where his Bright Lilim talked with her Judge Elohite. "She's redeemed because she could not serve the Game -- the Word, more than its Prince, but both entangled -- from a cell, and wanted to be in a better position for whenever the Game returned."

_All right, this is a gratifying reaction,_ Laurence thought, watching the other two Archangels gape speechlessly at him. "I thought so, too," he added.

Janus, predictably, recovered first. "She still thinks she's a _Gamester_?"

"Oh, yes." Laurence nodded. "But she felt I was the best... Player she could find, without her Prince. And she's quite aware that I will not release her to that service until _he_ shows up in Heaven."

"Until." Trust Michael to pick up on key words.

Again, Laurence nodded. "Until. I'm working on him. Far better to have the Game-sympathizers grouped in one service, I believe. That way, we can see where they are and have a chance to tell what they're doing. If they're spread throughout Heaven, spanning all Words and services, there's no telling what they'll get up to without any one Word-bound to lead them and channel them."

"You're trying to get _Asmodeus_ to redeem?" Janus spluttered.

"You think he can survive it?" Michael said, more levelly.

Laurence spread his hands, and looked down at them. "I don't know. My Bright survived it."

"I thought you said she was really a Gamester," Janus said, unable to resist the snarkiness.

"Oh, she is. But she's _my_ Gamester. My Game-dagger, held in trust."

"She stealable?"

"No. And if you kidnap her, I'll Hunt you down and get her back. Her redeemed faith is _not_ to be shattered that way."

Michael rumbled, "Enough. Laurence... You think there will be more of them? Than just these two?"

"Yes." Another nod, to the ancient Seraph. "I think that this pair may find ways to bring others of their sort to Heaven -- the ones who need the Game the way my Choir need honor, or Seraphim need truth. I think there may be others like them already in service to other Words. Ones who find enough Game within Heaven that they could shed their demonic natures, but who still _think_ in the Game-terms. They'll find each other, given time and a few such as that pair to rally around."

"Mmm." Michael thought over the words.

Laurence continued, "Jean's proven that Hell-Words need not be only Hell's. A Cherub Angel of the Game..."

Janus broke in. "Going to threaten to take down the Internet?"

Laurence rolled his eyes. "No. But I'm going to lean on Jean and Marc, and let Marc lean on you."

" _If_ he survives," Michael reminded them both.

"If," Laurence agreed. "And if not, I'll work my down the nobility of the Game until I can find one who will serve, even if it winds up being one of these two. I swear, I do not want the shadow Game becoming a power in its own right, without face or form, lying in the hearts of those who find any other Word incomplete."

"Mmm."Michael nodded, this time. "Like Creation, only with more redeemed, and more likely to hide things."

"Yes. We must choose a new Archangel for them, soon."

Janus sighed, turning more slowly. "Art's still in Trauma, and Israfel is still weeping in Hades. Half their Committee's incapacitated with grief, Trauma, or soul-death."

"And Novalis too busy with Hell to take over propping the remainder up, and Marc too reduced in strength..." Laurence shook his head. "I'll see if I can talk to Jordi or Blandine."

"You know," Michael said, slowly. "You know, if Dominic's investigation into the Watchers... If their case gives a different answer... What if Song's still alive?"

Janus emitted a weird, eerie whistle. It was entirely in keeping with the way Laurence's wings prickled, trying to fluff up.

"Just a thought," Michael said. "Didn't you think of that when you badgered him into re-opening the case, Laurence?"

Mutely, he shook his head and crossed himself.

"Well," Michael went on, "we'll think of something, even if I have to go and drag Israfel up to Council to be elevated. Now, about our real politics..."

The discussion went to slightly less disturbing ground, after that.


	46. Mice

* * *

* * *

The two held each other in the darkness, while disturbance echoed and built until it seemed even the unaware humans should hear it. They seemed just a frightened young couple, ignored while mortals fled the city, or hid in basements.

"Run away with me," the arguably male one whispered into his companion's ear. "If we start now, no one will find us."

"Won't that depend on who wins?" Her voice was calm, and quiet; her arms were gentle around him, a contrast to his tight embrace.

"Maybe." He reminded himself to let her breathe, even though she seemed untroubled, un-captured.

"You can't count on the Prince dying."

For a moment, he didn't understand. Then, because it really didn't matter anymore, he said, "I was never Valefor's. I was Grandmother's agent from the start. Please come with me."

Her fingertips played over the scarred leather of his jacket. "Free angel."

He snorted into her hair. "No more free than any Lilim."

"And no less," she countered.

"And no less. Please?"

" _Mother_ will still find us, if we bear her tokens."

He took a breath. "So long as I can keep you safe, Light of Hope..."

"Ah, Esbon." She softened his name in her whisper. Nuzzled at his chin until he shifted enough for her kiss. "Will it really matter? Either the Lightbringer will win, and we will go on as we have..."

"Or he will win, and let loose the Game upon the Frees," Ezbon whispered, his voice rough.

"And the angels would not do the same?"

"I was Wind, Urichislon," he said, looking down into her eyes. "I will not be caught by Sword or Judgment. They will _not_ find us."

She hummed in the back of her throat, laying her head against his shoulder and pulling an arm around to toy with strands of his fine, long hair. "If we wait, we must pray for one outcome out of three. If we go..."

"It improves our chances."

She nodded. And a small time later, she said, "Very well. We shall go. My contract was over, and it is inconvenient to try to return to the Guildhall, anyway."

The young man gathered her into his arms and carried her the paces necessary to set her on his motorcycle. "The Earth's a big place," he promised as he got on in front of her. "We can stay unnoticed for a long, long time. Maybe forever."

She wrapped her arms around his waist. "Forever is very difficult to prove."

"One day at a time."

The young woman smiled, and held him tightly as they raced into the night, and moonrise.


	47. Drabble: Desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sariel.  
>  _(Remember the VapuLilim with the hook?)_

* * *

* * *

Nybbas looked at the Lilim clinging to him, and tried to remember when the Hell she'd gotten the hook. Her hopeless weeping wasn't helping his memory.

"Look... you want to drop that Geas now?"

She shook her head, frantically, against his chest. When he finally remembered his new resonance, he nearly groaned at the combination of what he was to her. The terrifying last hope.

"Ooookay. Let's make another deal. You let go, and I get you a computer-- same as I'd do for any of my other people. Deal?"

Slowly, she let go. Her eyes reminded him of Naioth.


	48. Drabble: The Uninvited Fairy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dryaunda

* * *

* * *

"Daddy! It's Aunt Una!"

Aaron stood and juggled his newest daughter as his mentor... hugged him. "Ah?"

"Congratulations." She touched the baby's nose. "Mother's sleeping?"

"Yes... What do you need?"

"I'm the uninvited fairy." She winked.

"Smarts and looks. Voice, we'll live without."

She laughed. "I'll keep it in mind." Then she leaned down, whispering something into the baby's ear. Aaron couldn't hear what, but the hair went up on his arms.

Una straightened up. She told the baby, "Now, remember that when it's time." The baby gurgled, and the look between them held a secret.

Aaron smiled at them.


	49. Promises

* * *

* * *

Geases aren't forever, no matter what Lilim say. Viritrice is a Lilim, and she knows. Someone might die, and the Geas be lost. Someone might resist a hook. And once spent, a Geas will burn itself to nothing, and nothing you can do about it.

`You're going to leave me`, she types.

`I am NOT`, comes the reply.

`You are. You will. The Malakim will have me. The Archangel will have me.` Her fingers shake. Freedom is another word for nothing left to lose.

`He's not planning to kill you. Hell, LAURENCE isn't planning to kill you.`

`Say it to my face`, she types. "Say it to my face," she whispers.

He doesn't type anything back. He doesn't have to. It's not part of the Geas.

*****

It's crumbling. She can feel it, like a stopwatch ticking down. It measures the span of her life, she thinks. The span of time before the angels come to hurt her.

She's not one of his own. She can't be. She'd have tried everything to climb onto the lowest rung of his organization, but she doesn't have a scrap of Media in her -- save maybe making cameras. Even there, it's the computerized controls that she might manage... And she isn't allowed near tools.

She's heard, from the Media forums they're permitted, that unruly demons are clapped into shackles that send them unconscious or maybe just immobile, and stacked into the Notre Dame cells like... her world has no similes. Like test tubes in their racks, perhaps. Thousands of samples, in glass tubes, for the scientist to draw out at whim.

But how can she gain protection? Lightning and Technology... She doesn't want to forsake the progress of the Genius Prince. She doesn't want to stay her hand and walk glaring hallways as a silent nun with chained hands, condemned to silence.

It makes her crazy, to feel Notre Dame howling around her, and know her only thread of hope is unraveling, with nothing she can do to make it stronger.

Someone thumps upon her door, and she scampers to open it, afraid to anger whoever is out there.

Him. The Prince(no-more). Familiar vessel, unfamiliar clothing. Odd device at his belt. Familiar irritation, and she backs away to fall to her knees and babble apologies in Helltongue.

He winces, for some reason, and waves a hand to brush her words aside. " **Yeah, babe, I know the stitch. Look, shut up a sec and let me think.** "

" **I can't think,** " she cries, with the Helltongue the only privacy her shattered dignity has left. " **The Tether drowns me out.** "

Nybbas mutters something. A bit louder, he says, "Yeah. Yeah, it would." He shifts back to Helltongue. " **Work with me here, Viritrice. Hysterical demons are a dime a dozen. There's only one way out of this cell. It doesn't do what you think it does.** "

There are a thousand things Viritrice wants to say, a thousand rebuttals, but under them all... The tears streak her face and the Tether scatters her thoughts until all she has left is, " **I'm scared.** "

His glasses flare and crackle, and he tiredly pushes them up on his nose. Then he goes down to one knee in front of her, and holds her by her shoulders. Awkwardly, he pulls her against his chest, and mutters something that -- this close -- sounds like, "Works f'r Naioth..."

The Geas fades away from her, like a computer shutting down, crashing, disintegrating in her hands no matter how tightly she grasps his shirt.

The Tether's howling nearly drowns out the Helltongue mutter, save that she can hear it in his chest. " **Aw, blessit, why do I get the broken orphan ones? Helloooo, Prince? Compassion? Blessed feathers. And do I get instantiations for this? No, I do not. Because the whole Seraphim Council -- 'cept for Trade and Lightning -- have their collective heads five centuries ago and think they're up to date so noooooo, can't give him the job without making him waaaaaait. Can't give him the tools, oh-no, he might redeem someone on his own, can't have _that_...**"

"Redeem?" she whispers. "You?"

" **No, not me. That's the _point_ , apparently.**" His voice all but drips acid, but she's served the Genius Prince long enough to know when acid's directed at someone else.

"But... you... you will..." She doesn't know what she wants to say. It's an incoherent note of hope amid the cacophony and fear.

" **Look, babe... If you just get over the Balshit, there's plenty of stuff you could do with Lightning.** "

"No! You... _You're all I know!_ " She sobs into his shirt. "You're all that makes sense."

" **Aw.... Blessit.** " He strokes her hair and sighs. " **Can't argue with that, babe.** "

They don't go to the cell's tiny cot. Clothing stays on. No hooks, official or not.

And yet, when he finally sets her down and tells her he has _got_ to get back to work, she doesn't feel quite as afraid. Stupid or crazy, she thinks he will come back.


	50. Patience is a Virtue, Not a Mercurian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, and I hope _this_ works. It's probably some 10-15, maybe 20 in-continuity years since the whole IT thread started...

* * *

* * *

He's busy -- always busy, always overworked. even more than most of the Sparkies who share the Cathedral... -- when the reliever comes, chirping, "Thika! Message! Nybbas! Media-Angel!" It's shiny, and new, and hands him the rolled up scroll with the shimmering eyes and happy expression of a reliever who's never even heard he was a Prince.

It flutters off, too, singing to itself without a care in the world. All Soundtrack does is echo the reliever-style nursery rhymes, too.

Nybbas cracks the seal and opens up the scroll, muttering to himself. "...honor of presence... requested... very important... Don't Seraphim get dissonant for saying everything but _what about_? Not like she can't email me... Windys steal her computer?"

But he emails Jean, and puts his projects on hold. _Something Came Up_ still works, and it's probably true.

When he looks up from all that, he sees that Naioth -- his fox-Cherub -- has gotten into the scroll herself, pinning down the edges with her paws and snuffling the parchment as if she could _smell_ between the lines.

"Shouldn't take long, babe," he says, scratching her behind the ears. She leans into his hand, eyes closed, and lets the scroll roll up again.

But when he stands and heads for the door... she follows. He pauses and asks, "You... sure you want to come along?"

She fox-smiles up at him, and nods. For all that she'll come up with stuff, email it to him, listen to his suggestions on changes... Not a word. Never a word. It's all posture and looks, and a silent ex-Djinn.

Once, he wondered if Israfel took Naioth's voice, when the Angel of Music went down to Hell to mourn Eli for everyone.

"All right. Should be boring."

She sneezes -- maybe that's a comment? -- and follows at his heels.

****

His representative in the Seraphim Council is the golden Seraph Bithicanaan -- Thika for short. Marc assigned her to the job of keeping the Media's interests in mind during meetings. She greets him at the doors to the Council, flanked by another Seraph with indigo scales and a Mercurian with his feathers edged in black paint. From the way the pair look, like they'll never quite smile again, he guesses they're a couple of Creation's orphans.

Soundtrack hits him with Naioth's... theme. The unaccompanied singer with grief and pain, and he finally makes the connection. Naioth's bow to them, and his own belated resonance, confirm they're more than just orphans, and he wonders what Music and Art are doing with Thika.

Thika doesn't let him ask questions, even if he could past the weeping in Soundtrack. "You're very nearly late!" she scolds. "Didn't the reliever say to come _right away_?"

"Ah, no, babe..."

"So young! Well, I should have known better. Come on, come on." She herds him with her wings, and the pair of Creationers follow, Naioth trotting at everyone's heels.

Instead of heading for Thika's desk, the Seraph puts Nybbas in the front row of seats for observers -- near the doors, and near the floor of the Council chamber -- before bustling off. Art (whose Word, yes, is his name) sits next to him, with Israfel coiling into a chair just beyond. (It helps calm Soundtrack, just a little.) Naioth slides by them all, exchanging a long glance with the indigo Seraph. When she bows her serpentine head to murmur something to the Cherub, Nybbas almost hopes that she's given Naioth's voice back. But the smaller angel just touches noses with her and goes on to lean her head atop Nybbas' knee.

After a while, Art sighs and reaches out to rub her ears. "It's never going to be the same," he says quietly, "but at least you've got what you need."

Nybbas does _not_ want to talk to a pair of Word-bound Creationers who've been around longer than some dirt -- and probably looking down their noses at him for nearly as long. He can manage a polite nod, but then it's easier to pay attention to the person on the floor. (Hard to keep Israfel's grief-song out of Soundtrack, though. No help from _that_ , clearly.)

Some Flowers report from Hell. At least they're not touching Perdition. That's something. Not even _mentioning_ it, and he lets himself feel a little smug.

If he cranes his neck, Nybbas can see Marc and Jean from here, each at their desks. Marc's still wearing an eyepatch, but the cane -- Marc swears -- is for show. Jean is far too busy with the holographic screens around his desk to notice anyone staring -- or at least to show he notices. Marc... is talking to Thika.

When the Flower-kite _finally_ stops talking and leaves the floor, Marc stands briefly. "Move to fulfill the prior business."

Jean, without looking up, raps out, "Seconded."

David, slower, growls, "Thirded."

Laurence -- not Dominic -- stands. "Is there any substantive objection that has not already been voiced?"

A small murmur of negation answers that, from Archangels and elder members alike.

"Very well," the Lord Commander sighs. "Me either. Jean?"

Nybbas blinks, behind his glasses. _No **way**. No blessed way. He'd have told me! ...right?_ But as Jean rises, there are a bunch of familiar relievers suddenly sitting on Lightning's desk, and all of them have cameras save the littlest, who clutches a sparkler behind its back.

He looks around, suspiciously. Naioth is silent, and smug with guessing or foreknowledge. Israfel just looks grieving, but Art nods. "Good. We can put them off a while longer."

**Nybbas. If you will?** And that's Jean's voice in his head, and Jean over on the Council floor, holding one hand out.

Nybbas stands up, knowing his wings have gone all prickly with feathers and not sure whether to even try to glare them back into the leather-look of his special vessel. Everyone's watching him, and he can barely manage to get one foot in front of the other.

He'd thought it'd be easier than this.

_You have created the light that will bring the darkness,_ whispers an old memory. _I give you the Word of the Media._ And he remembers bowing. _And you're a Prince._

He thinks, _Yeah, and why am I so nervous **now**?_

And then he's there, next to the Archangel of Lightning, and Soundtrack is humming things like "St. Elmo's Fire" and the incongruously country and western "Lightning Does the Work." With vast bland calm, Jean winks at him. **There will be ceremony. We're stuffy like that.**

**Uh-huh.** After years... He _needs_ this. Needs it over, needs to be working, needs to finish it and hit the ground running.

It shouldn't be even a little scary.

Jean speaks out loud. "Because Lightning is not prone to long, drawn out speeches -- forgive me, David -- I will not make one like that. The Media is as gray as any other force of nature. It can blind a human with lies, or make one aware of the truths of others half a world away. It is used and misused by humans every day. Once, the Media had a Demon Prince. After today, it will have an Archangel."

More quietly, and quickly, he says, "Ritual question: consent? Resonance truth: yes. As I am the conduit, this will likely tingle."

With enough attunements and Distinctions from Lightning to know what that means, the feathers on Nybbas' wings fluff out, and he'd feel mortified if not for the energy that's pouring into him and turning each feather into something that glows with fractal lightning patterns.

It's not at all like what Lucifer did. Not the sudden heart-bursting surge of Essence and power, willy-nilly dragging him into awareness of things he'd only known in theory. It's layers of song and harmony from the united throats of the Council, weaving a matrix around him and the power flowing through Jean that all but dissolves him to condense around that matrix.

It's not sharp. It's music pulling each feather, like a plucking scene -- and he hears Marc's voice, soaring tenor for a moment -- but his Forces are loose and sliding, going with the pull until they've turned into something that's not properly called _Forces_ anymore.

And the music crackles out, with his glasses gone clear and not shielding a thing, building in a feedback of Symphony and Soundtrack. For a moment, he is utterly helpless, held together only by Jean and the Council, and it's like redemption without the pain.

Then, it's familiar again. It's the power swirling into him, the media-feeds that don't overwhelm, the interests and viewer-shares and Essence, and he throws his head back and laughs with Soundtrack spilling out in relief and _joy_. The Council looks stunned, but he's _Nybbas_ , he's the _Media_ and "stop the presses" never meant _him_. Fractured thoughts become thought-chains, spun off to manifestations that blink into existence and hit the ground running -- dancing, because motion's something that's crept into him, Ofanite-fire like caffeine in his blood.

Jean pulls him into a parental hug, and instructs, "Don't burn yourself out." Nybbas can feel the transfer of Tether-Forces, one, two, three. Starting-gifts, pumping energy into him in concentrated form.

"My turn," Marc says, suddenly there, and another half-dozen Tethers come with a very public kiss.

Someone in the Council -- maybe Michael, from the voice -- calls out, "Get. A. _Room!_ "

Nybbas laughs again, and spins a self out to dance and twirl over the Eternal City. He's going to get a room. He's going to get a whole blessed _Cathedral_!

And back in the Council chambers, despite cheering relievers, despite the Lord Commander saying something about ajourning until the party has cleared the floor... he can feel Naioth leaning against his legs, and hear a tiny whisper of, "Mine. Yours."

So of course he has to pick her up and hug her, too.


	51. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set long ago, in the Interesting Times continuity. [I.e., it's a prequel chapter, really.] It contains implicit spoilers for _Feast of Blades_. Note that Feast of Blades is available from [warehouse23.com].

* * *

* * *

Coils unwound themselves from the shadows in her room. The garish lanterns of Shal-Mari cast crazy highlights across the scales. "Lilith."

"Hello, Gebbeleth. I see you found your special door."

"For me, Lilith? You are so sweet." Half-seen coils rustled as the Balseraph Prince glided across to where she stood.

She knew better than to try to light any candles, or even uncover a glowstone. The scales moved against her ankles and against her back, with leather wings draping over her shoulders. On the other hand, he knew better than to make the coils tight, or fold the wings in a way that might imprison her. So she stood and allowed Gebbeleth his conceits.

"I have heard, Lilith, that you have a secret way of making Daughters."

"I think everyone knows that, Gebbeleth," she said, mildly.

"Ah, but they don't know what it is. And I... I think I do."

"Many people do."

"But they do not know that you whisper to them. You whisper, and then you place your finger to their lips. 'Shh, it's a secret.'"

She was silent a moment. "And you want something for this silenced information, this removed informant?"

"I, Lilith?"

She spread her hands apart, and a dagger was within them, balanced at tip and pommel against her palms. "You know my curiosity, Gebbeleth. I merely borrowed it. I think you could do great things with it."

"Of course, Lilith." A tailtip swayed up and curled around the dagger's hilt, bringing it back down to be lost amid the shifting coils.

"It's protective. You could probably go... Well, perhaps not there. I would not want you to be discovered."

"I? Discovered? Lilith, sweet little pet, how could I be discovered, when I am all the Secrets that ever were?"

She bowed her head a little, her hair moving against the whispering jaw upon her shoulder. "You're right, of course. You could slip this dagger -- and yourself -- even into Heaven, and listen to what they said, and come back again. But it would be safer to send someone else, at least a first time."

"If I send someone else, why ever go there myself? What, sweet girl, would be the point?"

She shrugged, slightly dislodging the serpentine head. "Well, I suppose if you trust your Servitor to tell you everything it saw, you'd be the one to know best."

"I'm not stupid, girl. What do you want me to do there?"

She looked sidelong, into the darkness of eyes that swallowed up all light and let nothing out again. "Do they know, do they suspect, what you do?"

"And if I find out?"

Her whisper was bleak. "Then I will owe you much."

"The Name itself?"

She shuddered, and closed her eyes. "Ah."

"Answer, Lightbringer's mistress. Answer me, or perhaps I will speak to him of things you have not told him."

She opened her eyes again. Her words were toneless. "Yes, Gebbeleth. I will give it to you, if you find the information I need."

The Prince hissed in pleasure, and tightened the coils around her body.

Her voice became harder. "But if you take liberties now, I will tell Lucifer myself that you are making up stories to get revenge -- that I rejected you and your entwinings."

"Fair enough, fair enough." The Prince unwound from her, and melted back into the shadows.

When she finally moved to uncover the glowstones, and light candles, her eyes were cold and angry. One of her Daughters might have manifested a hook she held -- but Lilith knew better. It was a secret, yes, but one among many.

And when she followed the tug of the little hook she held -- she, Lilith, who never took hooks (where anyone could see) and certainly never tried to invoke them -- she found the Prince within a dagger, and the dagger in the hands of his servant.

She followed them, until the blade passed from demon hands to sorcerer's hands, with instructions that would have the cult descended upon by angels within a month, if not less. She followed the mortal, until he slept, and then she took up the blade.

"I see that you are fulfilling the bargain, Gebbeleth," she whispered to it. "I will fulfill my part early, then. But I must fortify this weapon so it will not break."

She set her lips against the hilt, and wove a binding of Forces about the artifact.

She whispered the Name she had been given, so long ago in an older bargain. It passed the binding, and wrapped it tighter and harder. It passed within... and the Balseraph within could not escape its Truth.

Lilith put down the dagger, where she had found it, and walked away. The bindings would keep Gebbeleth trapped in it, his screams unheard, until long after he had been taken to Heaven and back.

She wondered how long it would take his minions to realize he was vanished -- and how many holds she could get upon them in the meantime as they begged for aid and went unanswered. She began to listen for the name of Gebbeleth on the breeze.


	52. Employees Wanted (CW: Problematic Depictions-see notes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My, I wrote this a long while ago (2005; 14 years...). Well. And it's part of this, and Khalid _was_ less than happy about tech, as I recall. (While Jean, obviously, thought it had quite a number of uses. Even Elohim can disagree about things.)
> 
> Anyway. This is a problematic chapter, and probably even more-so than I realize.
> 
> Also, Nybbas is being a tad of a jerk and I would strongly consider editing some of his words, but I'm not sure what to change them _to_ that would be consistent with the character. *grumble*
> 
> I suppose I can always delete the chapter here if it's too terrible.
> 
> **Content Warning: Problematic Depictions.**

* * *

* * *

Nybbas is busy... But it's the busy that's spread out among at _least_ three different instantiations, with others flickering in and out at need. It's the kind of busy that's _relaxing_. Even if he does have one of his Calabim screaming at him in a cell in Notre Dame; it's the good kind of screaming.

His pager chimes, in Heaven, and Golden Delight's cheerful voice says, "Two Elohim to see you, sir!" (His former secretary, a Lilim, will get installed again -- but she's had to schedule the redemption so that she's not on any other projects. Marc says she's stalling, but it won't hurt anything unless she bumps it later on a regular basis.)

"Gimme a min, babe, then send 'em in." She will, too. Very literal, that little Trader Mercurian. It'll be exactly sixty seconds, timed by the Jeantech computer on her desk.

He sends off some email, flips through some feeds, debates whether or not he wants to do the Lightning-look of having five screens going in the background and decides on only two, and those mostly out of sight.

On the sixty-first second, the doors open and a pair of figures slip in.

Nybbas' first thought is, _These are Elohim?_ His second is, _These are not healthy Elohim._

They're holding hands, to start with, with enough desperation that makes him wonder what this is more optimal _than_. Secondly, they're both in Arabic-style robes with only their eyes showing -- closer to the female versions, but still androgynous in cut. Thirdly, one of them has painted its hands with henna designs. Some clues show up in resonance, but he lets the pair move to in front of his desk and introduce themselves.

The henna-handed one speaks first, its henna-red eyes meeting his bravely. "This is Abdul-Hadi, of Faith. I am Akilah, of Protection. We seek service with the Media."

Abdul-Hadi's eyes are lowered, and its hand trembles where it holds Akilah's.

Nybbas shifts in his seat. "Uh-huh. And... this is why you're repressing yourself and Abdul-Hadi here's being revolted about everything here?"

Though it addresses the floor, the second Elohite's voice is clear enough, and doesn't -- quite -- shake. "I remember what the Media could do to my Lord's favored people. I remember what they sought to do with the Media, themselves. We never understood it. It was not a thing of Faith. But it had power."

Akilah raises its chin. "If we are to continue our Archangels' work, and protect those who have no voice in Council, we must master new tools. We must distinguish ourselves with our ability to serve Allah. We must surpass our grief and mistrust of what was used against us so keenly, and take the blade by the hilt instead."

Malakite resonance ( _so_ blessed cool, even weeks later) says they're being an honorable pair of stiff-backed, religious, technologically mistrusting Powers -- sacrificing prejudice and preference on the altar of objectivity.

"Soooo... I'm an up and coming Prince, and you two think you can get in on th' ground floor, influence a culture, keep it from being gobbled up by the big bad non-Muslims, and... get Words? Elevated?"

They flinch. "Archangel," Akilah begins, smoothness in its tone.

Abdul-Hadi interrupts it, raising brown-black eyes that show way too much emotion for most Elohim. "Yes. That is exactly what we think. But by our Choir, you know we will serve as we can, for that chance."

Nybbas regards them for a while, his glasses a soft hum of static. _Why do all the broken ones come to me?_ he wonders. And finally, he sighs. "I have got _no_ idea what I'm going to do with you. But all right. If you want in, you're in. If any of your friends want in... I'll listen. But we're gonna do this on probation. Put your Hearts in my Tower or keep 'em where you've got 'em now, but I'm not gonna mess with 'em till we're sure you want to stay. Talk with Golden Delight 'bout offices, and when you're set up, there's some classes in basic Media-tech. She'll route you over to the Lightning teachers there. Suits?"

Abdul-Hadi closes its eyes, with the weirdest mix of relief and horrified grief. Akilah grips its hand tightly and nods. "Thank you, Archangel."

Nybbas twitches. "Not Archangel. It's... not _me_ , babe. Angel Prince, I can do. Or just, I dunno, 'sir' or something. 'Kay?"

Akilah's eyes lighten just a little, so maybe there's a tiny Elosmile under that veil. "As you wish, sir."

They bow, and turn, walking shoulder to shoulder and still holding hands.

After they've been gone a while, Nybbas sighs and calls in one of "his" relievers. "Kid, go find out who's doing counseling with Judgment and have 'em set up some kinda schedule. We've got some of the _sad_ Orphans comin' now."

"Gotcha, Boss!" It salutes, and then tumbles off on its mission.

Being an Angel Prince is harder on the heart. It takes several minutes before work swallows him up enough to forget the looks in their eyes.


	53. Issues

* * *

* * *

"Boss, two Word-bound to see you!" Golden Delight's voice chirped over the intercom link. "Art and Israfel!"

Nybbas could suspect Golden Delight of having a _Word_ fetish. Not that he was complaining. "Half a sec, babe," he sent back, and wrapped up what he was doing in that manifestation.

It was easier, knowing ahead of time, to endure what Soundtrack clicked to the moment Israfel eased her indigo form through the door. Her feathers were a shade darker than her scales, a hair's breadth of color away from Malakite-black. Art -- white wings, beginning to be streaked with paint and clay, and little bits of collage paper here and there.

Nybbas' own feathers would have been ruffled in uncomfortable sympathy, but he'd finally walled them away for _good_ , once he made Superior again. Still, he managed to make himself run through the "What would _Marc_ do?" routine, and stood up to shake hands with Art and lightly brush Israfel's extended wing. (The swelling misery of her song wept across the back of his mind at the contact, but receded a little as they drew away.)

"So, to what do I owe this visit?" he asked, sitting back.

"There are a number of Creationers seeking your service," Israfel whispered, as if her voice were just short of raw. He wondered how they'd pried her out of Hell.

"Some of them," Art said, with firm annoyance, "are seeking others and trying to bring them to your service, whether or not it's a good fit. I grant that you have movies and television, but..."

"Look, babe, I didn't send 'em to do that," Nybbas protested.

While Israfel murmured, "Oh, good," Art growled, "Are you _sure_?"

Nybbas frowned, one hand tapping on the desk. "Yeah, babe. I'm sure. I need Media types, not Creation."

Arms crossed in front of him, Art muttered, "The Media has always needed Creation."

Nybbas counted to three. In that manifestation. "As Servitors, I need Media types. Not Creation types."

"Which is understandable," Israfel whispered. (He shivered at the way Soundtrack wept with her voice.)

"I'm just concerned that some of our brethren are equating one Mercurian Archangel with glancing associations to the visual arts..."

"Look," Nybbas said, a little more loudly. "Babe. I am _not_ encouraging that."

"Good," Art said. "Because if you were trying to tell our kin that... that you were some kind of _replacement_..."

Nybbas counted to three again. Then he did it in a different instantiation. "I have _no_ intention of trying to... imitate... him."

"You couldn't even if you tried."

Something... snapped, even though there's a deeper grief underneath Art's words. Nybbas hand clenched into a fist. "I wouldn't _want_ to try! I'm _not him_! I don't _want_ to be him!"

Art looked like he'd like to say something else, something angry and hurting. Israfel cocked her head, listening. Words... bubbled up. "Why would _anyone_ want to be that self- _righteous_ self- _centered_ blind _bastard_ of a fluffwing? The Media _isn't_ Creation. The Media _should not be_ Creation. The Media has more blessed _sense_ than to _want_ to be Creation. Because Creation _walked out_. He took his originality and his talent and his skill and all his God-blessed _potential_ and he _wasted_ \--"

Art stood up and smacked the table, gripping the edge like someone with the "use anything" Malakite power. " _He did not!_ He had something _important_! He _told us so_! He came back when he was needed! He would have said what it was! And till then, the ones who needed people, he _sent_ to Archangels to keep them safe! He wasted _nothing_!"

"He wasted _everything_! He made great stuff and left it to _rot_. You people, you've got no idea of priorities! Wasting your time on stuff that'll never _matter_ because no one _knows_ about it!"

"Marketing is not the _point_ of Creation! The point of Creation is to Create and see that the Creation is not misused!"

"Not misused! By _the_ most irresponsible dropout _flake_ \--"

" _He was not irresponsible!_ "

" _ **ENOUGH!**_ "

The one word echoed through the room as if it were something close to Thunder, leaving even Nybbas reeling in that manifestation. Art's grip on the desk shifted from aggressive to desperately trying to hold himself up. "Israfel," the paint-spattered Mercurian gasped.

The Seraph Angel of Music had drawn herself up, her wings around her like a particularly fluffy cloak, and glared at them both. "You are both half-blind yourselves. Art, just because _you_ want to remake yourself into our Father does not mean _every_ Mercurian does -- even one who _does_ have a passing resonance for the audiovisual arts. And _you_ , Nybbas, are _young_ and did not know Eli from far before he left on his mission. Perhaps he had a greater task than anyone could dream of, and it would have been irresponsibility to shirk it. Perhaps he _had_ betrayed everything he had espoused since the Fall, and become a drop-out flake. _We may never know_ , this side of the Higher Heavens."

"I do not need to be _lectured_ to," Nybbas began, in a growl.

"No, you probably need to have a good screaming fit at someone." The clipped tones and tangential agreement derailed him enough to let her continue. "Not, however, Art. The Seraphim Council is putting pressure on us to choose which will become Archangel and attempt to fill our Father's role. If you want to give us cautionary tales, better to pour it into the ears of an Elohite or some other 'fluffwing' and send it via courier.

"Now, Art, I believe we have established that he is neither trying to lure in our kin with false promises, _nor_ does he see himself as attempting to take Father's place. Let us be off so I can dunk your head in a bucket." She glanced over her shoulder. "And you, Angel Prince, should consider having someone do likewise, before your Cherub hears you like this."

The thought of Naioth was nearly as good as cold water. "I don't let her hear this. She doesn't deserve it," he grumbled, clearly.

Israfel nodded. "Good. May the Symphony sing to you, Nybbas."

And she chivvied Art out, even to the point of smacking him across the legs with her tail when he dawdled.

Nybbas dropped back into his chair, grouchy and shaking. After a while, he flicked on the intercom. "Golden Delight, hold my calls. I..."

"I've called Lord Marc and asked him to bring over coffee already, sir!" she chirped.

It was probably better than sulking alone. "Um. Thanks. I think."

"Anytime, sir!"

The whisper of _Trade_ in the room, the way Soundtrack shifted... The scent of coffee, blessed coffee...

Marc set the tray on the desk, and smiled down at Nybbas. "Even with all your efforts, some people forget you're not a party-line Heavenborn, eh?"

Nybbas wrapped his hand around a cup and sipped. _Mmmm, **Irish** coffee._ "Somethin' like that, babe. Somethin' like that."


	54. Memorials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Because I can't justify it to myself that everyone should get a happy ending. *sniffle*_
> 
> (These are some original characters who showed up in (as-yet non-public) fic and as NPCs. Double yo-yo Lilim (Free, Wind, Game, Fire) and Seraph of Judgment-now-Destiny.)

* * *

* * *

She dances in Hell, like a flame. The blood-red leotard is backless, and shows thin white scars that trace and retrace across her back in mute testimony that could give Habbalah pause. Her wings are gouts of fire, gas-blue at the base, erupting into reds, yellows, and oranges. They flicker and change shape, one moment simple flames, the next proper angelwings, something butterfly...

The Cherub of Flowers who guards this block of cells... ignores her, as best it can.

Ignores how her face is as serene as that of Gabriel, these days, and that's harder for it.

She has been dancing here for days, perhaps weeks, a constant flame.

"Betharan?" comes a call from down the corridor. "Are you there?"

She pauses, looking up from splits with her wings in arching draperies of burning silk. "Jordan?"

The Seraph who flaps to her has cats-eye amber scales, and tawny-mottled wings. His eyes are golden, and concerned. "Ah, love, finding you..."

She looks to the ground. "My Heart was where it should have been. I woke there, eventually."

Jordan flinches, struck with the unsaid. "You know."

Betharan swung her legs around, and stood. Her wings fade to a crimson shimmer, cloaking her like her aura. "Neither would have wanted to be without the other. And they knew I had you, now."

The Seraph wraps himself around her. "My love. I'm so sorry."

She leans into him. "You loved them too, I think."

"Yes. But not from so far back."

"I wish... we had been permitted another reliever."

There is nothing Jordan can say to that. Nothing that can call back a dark-eyed Elohite and a laughing Wheel, or even give their memories life and form.

They do not speak of the first reliever, fledged and fled, or whether he lives. For that, they can only hope.

Finally, she draws back. "Well. They'd have loved what I've found. Or, rather--"

"Who," Jordan finishes. "They won't let you in?"

Her eyes are banked coals. "No. They won't. They say I must petition their Archangel, for he's not asked to see _me_ , even when given my name."

Jordan flips his wings about, thoughtfully. "Jahaziel would laugh," he murmurs. "But yes, I will use my powers for good."

"And till then... I've no words, to pray."

He tilts his head and takes her neck in the tip of his mouth, laying his tongue against her skin for a moment. "Then dance for us, Daughter in Fire. Dance our prayers to the Higher Heavens."

She nods, and her wings flare up in beginning.

Jordan slithers over to the Cherub, in order to apply a bit of Divine Logic, and wishes he could truly hear the echo of Wind-angel chortling.


	55. Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Siadea's fic ate my brain. I hope she approves of this sequel to it._
> 
>  
> 
> Which is to say, the original became kind of a shared-world thing on LiveJournal, aaaand I don't have permission to post those chapters. This will hopefully stand alone, if you take as given that Dominic has been under a lot of pressure, and now that Dominic is under _different_ pressure... Some of the cracks may be showing.

* * *

* * *

The cloak slides along the floor, the soft noise almost like scales on the floor. The Laurencian guards nod to the Archangel as he goes to the cells. The first one is a Balseraph. He opens the door and asks, "Do you wish to redeem?"

It cowers against the back of the wall. "I don't understand?"

"Do you wish to redeem?"

"I... I... Give me some time!"

"Do you wish to redeem?"

Its eyes are wide. "Yes!"

It believes this, but only from resonance. Nothing in its mind wishes harmony with Symphony or loyalty to God.

Dominic reaches out and disbands its Forces. The empty vessel falls to the ground.

He leaves the empty cell, with the silent guards who no longer need fear their prisoner's escape or resonance.

A Djinn is next, a Fallen. It ignores the question, all three times, only closing its eyes. Its honor is negligible. Its vessel is already supine, and so it does not fall at all.

A Habbalite shouts at him, denying it needs redemption at all. He puts it out of its misery, and goes on.

A dozen demons, more... He already loses count. He asks them, three times. And then he destroys them.

There is a shelf in this cell, filled with rows and rows of little crystals -- Force Catchers, each one holding a Shedite or two. He picks them up, and asks. And asks. And asks. He reads the truth in their pleas and false protestations of repentance. The crystals empty.

He picks up one with three Fleshless jammed within. It takes both hands. Asks, asks, asks. Executes sentence. Asks, asks, asks. Executes sentence.

Asks.

"You destroyed them! Why bother asking me?"

Asks.

"Where is our trial? Were we not to get trials?"

Asks.

"I never want to be like you! I am a demon like the ones you killed. Get it over with, sadist!"

And the Truth crashes in on him. The disgust for the Band, for its Bandmates, for its nature. The surface beliefs, covering the small part of it who had relished sharing a mind with policemen, relished the touch of justice, obeyed its Prince not just from fear but because no other would let it listen to human hearts without corrupting them.

He has asked. It has refused. But... the refusal was not True.

"Do you not hear me? Kill me like you want to! The Game and Judgment are one -- we're just honest about it. I never wanted to be some scatter-brained Hive!"

Its ideals shatter, thinking that somehow angels would be better, more fair, taking only true Outcasts and not wasting their time framing people for their reputations' sake. The curiosity of having wings, or cat paws.

"You do not speak Truth," Dominic says. He begins to set the crystal back upon the shelf.

" _Kill me!_ " it screams. "I hate you! I will never be an angel, never!"

A matter of opinion. Betrayal spurs the words. But... in redemption, opinion has power.

"You are no better than demons. Hypocrites. Just like Habbalah. Get it over with."

Dominic's hands shake. The demon believes what it says. It has seen him as an agent of destruction, implacable. Playing some game of redemption, refusing to believe the screamed agreements. (But they had been lies, desperate lies.)

How can he set it upon the shelf and call for some other Archangel? Why should it trust any of them? It has no access to the Seraph resonance, it cannot know that the others were lying.

This is injustice. It would be a Kyriotate. It could be a Judge, with a sense of fairness that has lasted even in Hell. But it fears angels. Mistrusts them. Rejects them.

He holds the crystal to him, and tries to think how to undo what he has done. He was so sure of the simple, elegant solution. And yet, he had not dreamed he would find a demon who should have been his.

"I'm... sorry," he says. "I have done you injustice. I did not realize."

"I hate you."

"I know."

"Destroy me. I won't redeem."

"No. Opinion."

"It's my life! You can't stop me from burning up, can you?"

"No. Not if you choose it. But..."

Laurence and Mihr nearly jostle in the doorway. Dominic does not know why they are there. His surety is gone, replaced by tears that stream down his cheeks as he sits on the floor and cradles the crystal in his hands. The Shedite screams pain and betrayed fury at him, and he cannot find the words to answer it.


	56. Mice in the Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Utterly self-indulgent. I love these two characters. Probably far too much, but hey._

* * *

* * *

Weeks of hiding stretch into months. Months stretch as well.

They were close to a Hell-Tether, when the War ended. They had felt it die, and watched the Seneschal screaming in the road until Urichislon walked forward and looked at the demon's eyes. Then she turned to Ezbon and said, "Kill him. It is all the mercy we can give."

And he had slit the demon's throat, there in the street, for her. Then they had run again, into the shadows.

Months of hiding, months of abandoned homes and the meeting of bodies in the darkness. His heart is lighter than hers, but still -- the world has changed, and it seems they are very small, and very alone, save for each other. Their families... who can know who lives and who dies?

It becomes apparent, eventually, which side won. He's glad it's Heaven; it would have been a complication for them no matter which, but at least he can whisper prayers to God now, and hope they will be heard. He fears more for his lover's soul than for his own.

Urichislon takes Geas-hooks with calm obsession. Somehow, they seem to be hooks in the souls of those who... Ezbon would not have objected to being hooked. Others, she says they should help without worrying about repayment -- but she says it with calculation, as thoughtful as any Elohite.

In the bedroom of a forgotten time-share, he reaches up to trace the lines of her neck and face. They've handed out food and money, taken from other abandoned caches (fewer and fewer as humanity regains its feet), and hooks are on his mind.

"How much do I owe you, Light of Hope?" he murmurs.

She moves her shoulders, stretching them, and says, "Why should you owe me?"

He smiles, fond. "Because you are Lilim -- and I love you."

"My angel." She smiles at him, and traces the vivid green tattoo on his chest, that mirrors the white-on-green of his celestial form. Her hand passes over the figure's legs, and follows them down until he gasps and catches at her shoulders.

Later, with her head on his chest, she asks him, "Why didn't you go to the battlefield?"

"Grandmother wouldn't take me. She said she didn't care to waste a Geas binding me to fight on her chosen side, and thought I might eat the dissonance anyway."

"Would you have? To fight for Heaven?"

He runs his nails lightly along her bare shoulders. "Maybe. It would have depend on... many things. Including what difference I thought I could make."

Her voice goes serious, instead of her usual diffidence. "I am glad you are here. I would not have liked to lose you." Her emotions confirm her words, and betray the uncertainty that she keeps contained.

So very like an Elohite, with her world shattered and simply making the correct motions to ensure that there will be ground beneath her feet. No wasted time and energy for hysterics. She does not seek to conquer the world, or force it to hold still for her will -- merely to be stable.

The next day, they dig through the supplies that were left and categorize them to the sound of rain on the roof and a slow dripping leak in one corner, near a window. Urichislon ponders the small treasures, and how best to pack them for later distribution.

It helps, that neither of them need to eat.

Ezbon brings her the cycle's saddlebags and lets her fill them. Her slow packing belies the way her thoughts are racing. He sits on his heels and waits for her to be ready to share her thoughts.

"Will you return to Heaven, Hastening to Understand?" she asks, using the translation of his name even as he so-often uses hers.

"Not without you," he replies, instantly and without calculation. It's truth. He keeps so much from her, that every scrap of truth he _can_ share... he does so without reservation.

She closes one saddlebag and fastens its belt. "It concerns me. I do not like the thought I might have to choose that from a position of weakness. Nor do I like the thought that it might place me in conflict. We both still bear Geases."

"To the Princess only, for my part."

Urichislon smiles faintly, with secrets half-hidden behind her hair as she tucks a box of tea into place within the next saddlebag.

"Your part, too," he breathes, admiring.

"I am Free Lilim, bound to Freedom alone." She pours sugar packets from their slightly damaged box into a plastic bag. With casual assurance he will follow her, she changes topic. "We need Roles. Troubleshooters, I think."

He frowns thoughtfully. "That will draw attention. Especially if we continue to work the stray miracle now and then."

"I know. We will have to make it slow and hard to trace. But we need them. We need the webs. Mother is still... somewhere. Freedom cannot be caged. If she calls us, we will need resources. If angels find us... we will need resources."

"Heaven-angels won't be particularly happy if we try to threaten them with geased servants."

"There are Heaven-angels who are more trigger happy than others. For them, I want a point to negotiate with. For the others... We do not need to use Geases, if we are known troubleshooters. We will have simple gratitude."

Ezbon crosses his arms over his knees, and smiles. "Can't _buy_ our way into Heaven, sweet tea."

She snorts at the nickname. "I do not plan to. But enough angels believe in 'works' that it seems a place to negotiate from, and ask questions. If I can convince them I am a tame enough Lilim, domesticated, then perhaps I may keep Freedom."

He thought her words over, turning them and looking at motives and reactions, estimating effects. "When we start this Role-building, we will be starting to be caught. It will be more difficult to hide. Is it the right time? For now, we are mice in the walls, silent and beneath notice."

"How long, then, before we shall be mice that roar?"

"A year? Two? At least that. Longer, if we can manage it. The Role will build if we help enough people, whether we will it or no. It will just be... slow."

With the last saddlebag packed and fastened, Urichislon sits back. "We have that time. I am still young, but I must remember that we have that time, and patience."

"Yes." He reaches out to stroke her hair. "And we have each other, I believe."

That is one of her rare open smiles, and he repays with his own. "Yes. We do."

The leaking roof has spared the bed, these many months. They... do not.


	57. Chat Logs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Including a character of [fadeverb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeverb/pseuds/fadeverb)'s!
> 
> This is the MMO version of SPANC. O;> )

* * *

* * *

Illuminbank whispers: "Jayde? Can I talk to you?"

You whisper to Illuminbank: "One sec. Combat."

Illuminbank whispers: "'Kay."

You whisper to Illuminbank: "Whatcha need?"

Illuminbank whispers: "My Boss gave me this server and name and said I could contact you. Is this the right Jayde?"

`/who Illuminbank`   
`Illuminbank [1] Poolboy <The All-Seeing Eye>`

You whisper to Illuminbank: "You're blowing your crew's cover, Sparky."

Illuminbank whispers: "The Boss said it was okay."

You whisper to Illuminbank: "Oh *did* the devious bastard? Indeed. Who are you and what do you need?"

Illuminbank whispers to you: "I'm... Maharang."

You whisper to Illuminbank: "I know the name, but I am not sure I know *you*."

Illuminbank whispers to you: "He said he wasn't using the name anymore, and I could have it, when I didn't have one of my own."

You whisper to Illuminbank: "He should know that a name is no small thing."

Illuminbank whispers to you: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

You whisper to Illuminbank: "One sec. Combat."

You whisper to Illuminbank: "I'm not upset with you, child. What is it you need from me, that your Boss lets you betray the crew and his spying?"

Illuminbank whispers to you: "I... need to talk to you. I haven't fledged yet. I want to be like Mannie."

_..._

You whisper to Illuminbank: "Have you told *Mannie* this, Maharang the Younger? Doesn't he think I'd take your Forces apart to do it?"

Illuminbank whispers to you: "He didn't suggest that. Is that the only way?"

_..._

_*sigh*_

You whisper to Illuminbank: "It's been the traditional way."

Illuminbank whispers to you: "But... it might be possible to do it the other way? I only have eight Forces."

_...the Name tingles in the throat, like smoke..._

You whisper to Illuminbank: "Interesting. It might be possible. There is the question of suitability and payment."

Illuminbank whispers to you: "What do I need to do?"

_..._

You whisper to Illuminbank: "First, get your devious bastard of a Boss to give you an appropriate familiar's vessel. Cat, owl, raven, kitten -- something of the sort. Monkey if he must, or parrot. Gray parrot. Then contact me again with the in-game email, and I'll tell you where to meet me. You will understand that if you betray me, I will not be pleased, Maharang the Younger."

Illuminbank whispers to you: "I understand. I'll talk to the Boss about it."

You whisper to Illuminbank: "Tell him that he is likely going to owe me."

Illuminbank whispers to you: "I will. Thank you, Lady."

You whisper to Illuminbank: "Good manners. We'll see how this works out. Go talk to your Boss. My caper target is respawning."

Illuminbank whispers to you: "Yes, Lady. Thank you. Logging now."


	58. 30 Second Summaries III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original notes:  
>  _Because all I need is incorrigement. Being incorrigible and all. I'll try to do as many of them as I can manage whilst bullying the child to nap._  
> 
> 
> _I should note that even the serious ones have been summarized whimsically, or at least dark-humorly, and I did other people's as well as my own. They are encouraged to post their own if they have better. O: >_
> 
> New notes:  
> The ones that are other people's will hopefully provide any missing context.

* * *

* * *

**Plucking Scene**  
NYBBAS: I hate feathers on MY wings!  
JEAN: I monitor the World Wide Web and have more knowledge of perversity than anyone could possibly believe. You have a boyfriend. Have _him_ pull them out.  
MARC: Well, I'm up for a little kink!  
NYBBAS: ...ooooooo!

 

**Almost Back in the Saddle** (by prophetmarcus)  
HUNTER (Malakite): Hey, long time no see.  
HOKAM (Djinn): Yeah, well. Whaddya want?  
HUNTER: Oh, the usual. Gonna redeem?  
HOKAM: I'll think about it if you beat me in a duel. Musical.  
HUNTER: Good enough.

 

**Loopholes**  
NOVALIS: I could use some help down here. Hey, what about the Watchers?  
DOMINIC: ABSOLUTELY NOT!  
LAURENCE: No, I think she's got a point. You never kicked them out of _Hell._  
DOMINIC: ...what?

 

**Tactical Vulnerability**  
MARC: You need a massage, Lilith. Laurence, come over here and learn from an old pro.  
LAURENCE: ...okaaaay.  
LILITH: ...I totally don't know how to deal with you both at the same time.  
MARC: I've got a few notions.  
LAURENCE: Huh?  
LILITH: ...we'll stick to the massage lessons. Be good, Marc.

 

**Questions**  
DOMINIC: Why are you trying to override me about the Watchers?  
LAURENCE: Do I have to hang upon a cross to buy forgiveness?  
DOMINIC: ...All right, they can be on probation.  
LAURENCE: Thanks. I'll have my people help yours.  
DOMINIC . o O (You'd better.)

 

**Penance** (by genchaos)  
GIRI: *yarp* Augh...never getting drunk again.  
TATIEL: You gonna be okay?  
GIRI: *yarp*

 

**Log: Mutual Interrogations**  
GIRI: So, you want to join the Sword?  
BETHARAN (the elder): Yes.  
GIRI: Why?  
BETHARAN: He's a Player. I'm a Game-piece. QED.  
GIRI . o O (Okay, Boss, she's not asking after redemption just for your butt.)

 

**Belated** (by letiwolf)  
KYRIO of CREATION: Dad's dead, I was in a snit at him, and life sucks. Also, my Heart cracked. Suck, suck, suck.

 

**Choices**  
LILITH . o O (I hate flashbacks. Also, I've got some issues about God.)

 

**Tethers**  
TAHAPENES: Go away, you disgusting Shedite Seneschal and stop phoning me.  
PONZ: Babe! You could go far in Factions! You could get Word-bound to a Tether, like me!  
(off-camera) [LILITH: *kills Lucifer*]  
PONZ: *much screaming*  
TAHAPENES: ...You are a seriously weird Fleshless. What _ever._ *click*


	59. Interlude: Saturday Morning Cartoons

* * *

* * *

Nybbas, self-titled Angel Prince, was busy (always busy), and so he ignored the relievers in the corner of his office.

The sounds of some show or other? That could have been any of his data feeds.

However, when he stood up and a bunch of relievers wailed, "Awwwwww!" he realized that perhaps white leather wings made far too good a movie screen...


	60. Payback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback chapter, waaaaay back to chapter 1.

* * *

* * *

It really was a good thing that Marc wasn't an Elohite -- or particularly high up in the list of command-heirs. It meant that he could scan the battlefield. It meant he could take to the air, when Laurence gave the signal, and circle the perimeter of the armies with Ofanite-speed. Yes, he sent Songs, aimed at the larger, more dangerous-looking demons, but one in particular...

Sneaking and edging and outright running -- not alone. Lots of demons were fleeing in the confusion. However, Marc had a secret weapon.

From nowhere, he plucked an apple of solid gold. (Marc appreciated the classics.) With a Song of Motion, he sent it in front of that one particular demon.

The Balseraph checked his flight, and lunged down for the shining toy. Marc landed behind him, and tapped him on the shoulder.

As Mammon turned around, Marc punched him in the face. It felt just as good as he'd always hoped.

A satisfying, intense round of fisticuffs later, Marc picked up Mammon's gun and pondered what to do with the unconscious Prince. (And had he fallen unconscious too easily? Marc would have expected more potency, from the power of the Word of Greed.) Shooting him or beheading him, while likely traditional, might send him into a Body Bag, or into Hell, or something equally distressing. With a sigh, Marc kicked the Balseraph in the head again and grabbed him up by the ankle.

Once again over the battlefield, Marc looked for an appropriate knot of demons. When he found one, he dropped Mammon's unconscious vessel among them and hoped that they'd have some problems with morale.

Something seared the edge of his wing, and he spun and jinked. Well, there were the Vapulans, clustered together for mutual support -- but not too close, lest someone's malfunctioning weapon explode. A few were doing just that, though he wouldn't be surprised if Kyriotates of Lightning were helping.

A gust of wind blew by -- one of Janus' bigger Kyriotates -- followed by some nasty-looking insect-robots. Perhaps miniature vacuum cleaners, trying to tear the angel apart.

For this, Marc pulled out his flaming sword, and swooped among them, swatting and smacking them with his wings. After a moment, they left off pursuit of the angel and began attempting to sting him -- mostly failing, from the Song of Form Marc'd used. _Well, that's got their -- what's the term? Right -- got their aggro. I wonder if they have any good treasure? I'm sure I could find someone to trade it to..._

Maybe one of those stings had scratched him a little, after all. The remaining swarm fled, one by one, and Marc suspected some Lightning Kyriotate had just availed itself of a half-dozen hosts. He landed, already near the ground, and muttered a bit of Healing in case the ariel Roomba-wasps had a potent poison.

The tone of yelling and shrieks near him rose high enough that he took to the air again to see what was going on...

Fleurity, unless Marc missed the smoke-scents. Pressed hard somewhere. And, there, the man with the backpack weapon, working his way closer... Habbalah aiding Habbalah, however grudgingly.

_Each according to their strength,_ Laurence had ordered. The Archangels with lesser power against the Princes, likewise. Whoever was dealing with Fleurity was likely _not_ a heavyweight to challenge Technology.

Marc, on the other hand...

He reached for Ofanite-speed again, and only having to swerve to avoid other airborne combatants made him land in front of the Prince of Technology, instead of crashing into him. _Dammit._

"Halt, Vapula! Face _me_!" He spread his wings and held his sword out straight and threatening, traditional flames rippling up from it. _I am older than you. I fought, unwilling, in the Fall. Underestimate me._

The Prince's mild voice carried well enough. "Angel should not fight angel."

Marc was shielded from resonance effects; he'd dealt with Lilith enough times, he had plenty of amulets for that. "Then redeem, for I've smacked any number of Habbalah without dissonance or qualm."

"Redemption does not matter to me. I have transcended mere Archangel status. I am more than angels. And you are in my way." Vapula pointed the absurdly small pistol at him, the base of it linked to his backpack with a thick cable.

"Careful, it might blow up." Marc sprang for him, running and then a jump and a downstroke, aiming for the gun...

At point-blank range, the Prince fired, and agony ripped through Marc's armor and shields. His vessel began to unravel at the leg, and his sword-stroke went wild and ineffective. He barely curled his wing in time not to break it as he bent his will to the Forces and Essence that composed his vessel and stabilized it again.

_Too long!_ he thought, looking up and trying to get to his feet again. His leg was numb.

Vapula stood over him, still with that expression of mild interest. "Oh, you lived." He aimed the gun again, at point-blank range. Marc had only time enough to furl his wings into the way and pour raw power into his shields -- and even then, he screamed from the pain and the effort of holding his vessel together.

Wings de-manifested -- easier to let the Song go than hold it there -- he tried to push himself up from the muck of the battleground.

"Two shots, and you're still moving. I'll have my testing crew punished."

**Shield again. Hard.**

Lightning struck the earth, off to the Prince's left. Vapula looked, to where a man in a white labcoat had appeared.

Marc obeyed the voice in his head and flung his energy into another shielding.

Without a word, without hesitation, without even a gesture, the Archangel of Lightning brought down bolt after bolt around the Prince. The backpack and gun-cable crackled and sparked.

Marc rolled farther away, and apparently that was all Jean had been waiting for to bring out the _big_ weapons, as explosions rocked the area. Small bombs, perhaps, Motion-Sung into range.

Again, Marc rolled away, trying -- like everyone else in the near vicinity -- to get out of the probable blast radius.

A wall of sheeting energy snapped into place, barely in front of Marc's nose. The force of the explosion went directly _up_ , loud and impressive.

_He... was in there, with Vapula! No... Not again, not following Raphael..._ Marc scrabbled to his feet, summoning his sword back to be a cane when his leg would not bear his weight. "Jean!" he shouted, as the wall flickered out.

And Jean stood, amidst a bare circle of ground. He strode over to Marc.

_Of course,_ Marc thought, trying not to go to his knees in relief, since it had been so hard to stand at all. _He shielded himself._

Jean's hand went under Marc's arm. "Get yourself to the back ranks with Flowers and pass out Essence until you recover. Nybbas is under control."

"Laurence still alive?" Marc knew who was next in line for the command.

"Yes. This is logic. Go."

"Yessir." Marc went.

Maybe from the back, he could find where Lilith has hidden and offer her a last-minute chance to escape.


	61. Changing Pains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, quite frankly, very angsty. Some stories, I write for me, I guess.

* * *

* * *

The Bright spread wings of fire, her green-flaming hands digging into the wood of the door behind her. Before her, the cloaked Archangel stood (or coiled?), with eyes like star rubies in the shadows of its hood. In a fold of robe, that might have hidden a hand or a wing, it cradled a crystal prison with oozing, smoky depths.

"Leave this one," the Lilim hissed, a thready plea. "He's not taking up corporeal space. There's no hurry."

" _but you are here, House of Grace,_ " Dominic sang, in soft and ancient tones. " _why?_ "

"My partner. You know that."

" _i would offer him redemption._ "

"He'd say no. It doesn't matter."

" _the answer is his to give, not yours._ "

"I don't want him dead!" That was a shriek, in tones of purest Truth and fear.

There was a silence. Dominic's other hand (or wing) moved beneath the cloak, and touched the faceted crystal it held. " _i have repented of hasty judgments. though i may determine Truth, not all are Seraphim to hear as i do._ "

Tears streaked down her face, fire-lit and glittering from her wings and aura. "If he's never... never put in danger... He's a Djinn. He doesn't care where he is. Djinn are perfectly content, just lying there. If he's not put in danger, he won't die. I won't lose him, too."

" _and so you would keep him from ever caring?_ "

"If I care, it's enough."

There was a pause. " _why do you discount those others who care for you? the Seraph once mine. your Archangel. your sisters in Heaven._ "

"I have been disowned -- my dark sisters won't want to talk to me, and my Bright ones don't need me. Jordan's... he's busy in Destiny, like all the redemption squads."

" _and Fire?_ "

She laughed and sobbed, bowing her head. "Belial is dead. Fire is sane." A needless breath through her teeth. "And I am not. Fire does not need me."

" _you would have rather she remained mad?_

"No! Of course not. But I see the others rejoice, and..." Her wings drooped, starting to furl, until she remembered and forced them up again, covering the doorway. "I am happy for them. For her. I am! I am only sad... for me. Wouldn't any blade be sad, to be put away?"

" _there are other services._ "

Her wings faded down, a cloak behind her instead of a bonfire. "No. The flaw is within me. Look..." Her voice broke, to a thin thread, " _Please_. Jordan only needs me alive and winged. Just let me fade to embers with my partner. Please."

" _you do him no kindness, Daughter of Fire. possible cruelty._ "

"Jordan will visit. If Teb wants feathers... he'll ask. I won't bind him against it. Just leave us be. Please."

The Archangel stood, and cradled the crystal in the cloaked curve of wing (or arm)." _for now,_ " he whispered, in the end, and turned away, with his robes whispering fragments of prayer.

The Lilim slumped, nearly to her knees, but watched him until he was out of sight. Then she pushed the door open, went in, and shut it behind her.


	62. Moments of Peace

* * *

* * *

Laurence lay on his stomach upon the warm sand, with his hair unbound so that it could dry. His shirt was spread out, a little ways away, but he'd cheated with the jeans. Wet jeans were tolerable. Damp jeans, drying, were irritating. Jeans which had been carefully tweaked at the meta-level of Forces and corporeality... were dry and comfortable.

A few feet away, Lilith's own cheating took the form of a vividly green, one piece swimsuit, with her catsuit tossed absently to one side to dry in whatever crumples and wrinkles it felt like.

The wet clothing was a natural result of catching her in their game of tag just before she Sang herself above an ocean.

He was vaguely curious about whether she liked the color green -- and thus Lilim had been created that way -- or whether she was affecting the preference because Lilim had happened to be the color. He felt terribly, terribly decadent, watching her on the beach and contemplating how to ask a trivial question. But he had other manifestations, reading reports, reviewing a class, sitting in Council, and nowhere near his limit should someone need to invoke him.

Before he found words, she commented, "I can count your ribs."

He blinked. "A problem?"

"No." She tilted her own head back, with her hair in drying, damp locks. It wasn't actually flattering to her, though only a fellow Superior might have been able to look beyond her natural charisma to see that. "Why not wear a bathing suit?"

He snorted lightly. "Modern ones... They're either undignified, uncomfortable, or both."

"So why not go naked? We've hardly eaten of the Tree..."

That was mischief in her eyes, and he parried with amusement. "Firstly, that's an allegory and legend, as we both know. Secondly..." And now he wondered if this was how Mercurians felt, to feel a deeper current and keep their voices light, feinting. "...I don't think you _want_ me to."

She leaned forward, in a pose made natural by practice. Her legs were drawn up a little, and her arms went loosely around them, crossed at the wrists. Her expression was distant. "I'm not sure what I want, sometimes. Or who I am, really."

Laurence pushed himself up and crept the short distance necessary to sit next to her. She leaned her head on his shoulder and absently traced over his chest and stomach. It felt like static electricity, but the sand shivered free from his skin rather than clinging. (If sand would have clung, anyway. He wasn't sure; he'd ask Jean later.) "You are more... as you were, sometimes."

Tension, in her shoulder where it touched his arm. But she didn't move away. "It's easy. Habit. Is it..." Her voice trailed off, but he was patient; the lesson of silent listening was useful, and not even of dubious honor.

And finally, rewarded. "Does it make you dislike me again?" A feinting tone, light. Sport-fencing, when he thought he knew enough of her to understand there were daggers in her heart.

He let the feint go by, and gave his attention to the live steel beneath with careful thought. "How you act... is one thing. What you do is another. Should I dislike you? Do you wish it?"

"I suppose I have a taste for danger."

He couldn't claim he wasn't dangerous. He tried to imagine what it would be like, next to a Balseraph so powerful as to dare to challenge God, who could create Princes and bind demons to Words -- and be an agent of God. To do evil sufficient to be trusted, to have the opportunity to do evil on a whim. Power corrupting; Superior power corrupting in a superior way. He couldn't. It was unthinkable, to be that close to the first Balseraph and...

_Oh._

And then he wondered, deep blades of live steel thought, what the Lightbringer's consort had truly thought of the Lightbringer himself. A poisoned dagger that rested quietly near his heart, or in his hand. And though they were charismatic, Archangel and human Princess, Lucifer had outshone the stars. (Jean said Nybbas still mourned the first one who had acknowledged him as having worth, who set him upon the treadmill and bade him run.) Could a sword entirely hate the hand that held it?

He remembered, vividly, the first time that he had uncovered one of his former Archangel's plans and looked at it with the eyes of a young Lord Commander... and thought, _That's tactically **stupid**!_ The guilt, as if he had somehow betrayed his creator and lord, had merged with an intense relief that he had the power to mend the error, and quickly driven him to confession in one vessel even as he'd called advisors in to double-check his instinctive reaction.

_My lord Uriel would never have lent himself to launching the attack early. He would never have trusted Lilith, even revealed. He would have wanted to keep her for trial, a prisoner in truth and not with her consent._ And she would have fled, betrayed by God's agents despite her own obedience to her pact. And what then? Could Lilith crack open the Lower Hells and loose Fate upon the world, even as she wove the first Tether to Hell and freed demons?

For in the end, she had betrayed her lover first, before he could be proven to betray whatever arrangements they had made together.

Depths of shattered steel, and a heart like a labyrinth. _"I'm not going to be like Novalis,"_ she'd said. Novalis had unexpectedly deep roots, but she was like a tree -- sound and solid, through and through.

He dusted his far hand off on his jeans, and cupped her cheek and chin with it. The lightest pressure, and she looked up at him. He felt the flickering of her masks against his palm, as she second-guessed her emotions and actions. Firmly, quietly, he said, "If I ever, ever forget that your cooperation is a gift, granted and withdrawn by your will and yours alone, I beg you to hit me over the head with something heavy enough to get my attention, and rub my stubborn, 'sword-spined,' Malakite nose in my foolishness."

That won him a small smile. "What do you see in me?" Lilith asked, resting her cheek against his fingers.

It was unexpected, and the whole of the answer was woven with things too big for mere words, and things too sharp. "You're human," he answered after a breath. "I think we all see our Words, in humanity. And so I see..."

"Mm?"

He took a chance, sliding his palm down her shoulder to pick up her hand. "As Sword and paladin, I see a mysterious Lady in a tower." He kissed her knuckles lightly.

"Needing rescue?" That was a fencing tone, with blunted, flexing blades.

"From boredom, like as not," he reposted.

"Touche," she whispered, and her breath was warm against his lips.

A bit later, her hands flat against his body, she said, "I really can count your ribs."

Slightly breathless, and not just from the slight ticklishness of where she had her fingers, he asked, "Should I change the vessel?"

"No." And that was a parry with live steel again, and a counter likewise, "Never change just for me, Laurence. If _you_ want... but not for me."

He brushed her chin with his thumb, liking how it sent tiny goose-bumps along her jaw. His own parry was light. "Well, if you'd rather just tease me about it now and then..."

It surprised a laugh from her, and she let him pull her around and down to rest on his chest. The ultimate move of the backrub completed the capture, and Laurence was glad of one unspoken benefit to wearing jeans. Certain vessel reactions would have been a distraction.


	63. Farewell Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, there's stories between this and the last time we saw them. I just don't know if I wrote them after this one, or if I haven't found them and tagged them correctly. >_>

* * *

* * *

When Aaron's family were sleeping, Ralinda in the rocking chair at the foot of the bed, Lady Una came. He opened his eyes, and smiled at her, where she crouched next to him. "Come for my soul after all, Lady Una?" he whispered.

She snorted, gently. "No, it's a different bargain I've got..."

"I'm over a hundred, m'Lady. Me and Ralinda both. Over a hundred, and nothing seriously wrong. Just... fading out, that's all."

"I can turn back the clock of your body. You know that."

"And so you can, so you can. But... where does that stop, m'Lady? Me, Ralinda... our kids? Our grandkids? Their grandkids? It's not right, if it's only us. And we're not far enough into space to make it right for all humans."

She put her hands on his upper arm, lightly. "Oh, Aaron... Why do you want to be mortal?"

He moved her other hand to cover hers, patting as if he were a grandfather to her as well as his own blood-kin. "You said this to mother, too, eh?"

"Yes." Her hair was a curtain with her head bowed like that.

"We're too much of the world, eh? But there's a path we walk, us worldly mortals. Reincarnation... doesn't sound so bad. You know I'm sorcerer enough to keep together, and Ralinda too. And there's the kids to keep working."

A sigh, and just a little shudder there. "Yes."

"So it's not so bad, eh?"

She turned her head so he could see her wry smile, and the nightlight glitter of her eyes. "Says you, mortal boy."

Aaron chuckled. "And someday, I'll see you again, and all the comfortable magic will be new again. I promise."

Una caught his hand and raised it to her lips. "I'll hold you to that."

There were little falling damp spots on his hand, but he didn't say anything to them, or how the light sparkled on her cheeks. "Deal."

"And I shall keep the pact... for you and yours." (A crack, in her voice?)

Aaron squeezed her hand. "Now let me sleep, m'Lady."

"All right. I'll... just wait here a little."

A final pat for her, a final smile, and he closed his eyes. The spread of his final spell was glowing lines that wove through his mind, his life, and met the knots of Ralinda's loving quilt of magic.

 

_Lilith sat, and waited as her disciples slept and breathed in unison. The sorcery was a good one. Good enough... maybe. Maybe._

_She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. She got up, and kissed his wife. She walked for the door._

_And at it, she turned._

_A pause, long and long, with choices and bargains thick in the air around her, as thick as the pattern of sorcery between the man and the woman._

_Lilith parted her lips. Whispered, "As you Choose, so mote it be."_

_And then the silence of the Name was deafening._


	64. Plowshares, But Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the aid of those whose characters and conceptions I have borrowed! (siadea, fadethecat, melpomenes_mask)

* * *

* * *

Laurence is exceedingly glad that he has more time. In some ways, he is more busy than ever, but more on projects that move at glacial slowness than ones which require fast tactics and what he now realizes is _adaptability_.

No one told Laurence that he was adaptable before. No one called him flexible.

He flicks a sport-foil back and forth and watches it curve as it whips through the air -- and wonders if this is fitting, for a weapon mostly retired from war.

* * *

He talks to prospective redeemed, and can walk away to give them time to think. He teaches an entire class of promising relievers, and an entire class of less-promising ones -- though he has an assistant to take over if he needs the instantiation. Under some protest, he allows Marc to drag him over half the world to _people watch_ , and tries to learn from the humans they see. At first under more protest, but then in a bit of turnaround, he insists that Novalis must escort him for a similar set of outings -- and finds that he can respect her as the Peace that must come after War, and the gardener who must tame the self-choking tangle of Hell.

(Laurence does not think he was wrong to disregard her before Armageddon, though. It is in the _clean up_ that she excels.)

* * *

And eventually he talks to an old Djinn -- for the sake of redeemed Servitors primarily, but once the duel of words and Words is engaged... perhaps a little for the dark genius that he begins to want reforged to Heaven's aims.

It takes a long time, and eventually, when that once-Prince hears something that perhaps he should not have... Laurence dedicates an instantiation to the debate.

It's good that he's an Archangel; there are other matters that arise while a part of him is closeted with Asmodeus, trying to convince a first Fallen to care about the world.

* * *

"I'm not sure that it's appropriate for me to accept the elevation," Israfel says, shifting her indigo-black coils. (Once she had been pale, precious colors, but her grief has dyed her scales even as the first rage of angels dyed the wings of Malakim.) "There is still a Watcher, Song..."

Art stands next to his sister in Creation, his hands clenched. His wings are spattered with watercolors and acrylics, oils and bits of sticky paper. "I'm not ready," he says, in what would be a whisper if he didn't have to make it carry.

"That's not all of it," Litheroy points out, bluntly.

Israfel gives the Archangel a warning glare, but Art bows his head and wraps his wings around himself. He covers his face with his hands for a moment, and then looks up again with tears streaking down. "I don't want to change my Word," he cries out. "How can I be Archangel in his place with the one I've got? What if he's going to come _back_?"

The tangle of logic makes Laurence want to twitch, but his Word grants him stoicism. He speaks as a diplomat, hoping to calm the Word-bound Orphan. "No one Word can cover all of Creation, true. And the mysteries concerning the Higher Heavens... complicate the matter."

Michael says, bluntly, "But the Creationers need someone to keep an eye on them. Someone who isn't one of us militant lot."

"Perhaps another Word?" Marc suggests. "A Word-bound to start with, of course, but something else to cover the myriad of facets of Creation, so that nothing is really _lost_?"

Dominic mutters, where really only Laurence can hear him, "Not Media. He's too young."

Israfel says, "That could help. Someone... someone who is on good terms with Judgment, if we can find one." She inclines her head to her fellow Seraph. "There are enough matters requiring Judgment's attention without elevating someone who might be... inclined to bear grudges."

Unexpectedly, Jean says, "I have someone in my service who may suit, then. Dominic, I believe you know to whom I refer?"

The cloaked Archangel looks at Jean for a moment, and then says, simply, "Oh."

Jean nods. "I'll contact him and see what Word or Words he might think of, and we can determine if there are any other candidates. With your permission, Laurence?"

Bemused, he replies, "All right."

* * *

Frustrated, Laurence tells a stubborn Djinn, "Whether the old Game continues, or a new Game arises -- all that Fate will need to keep us _and you_ in doubt and confusion is to avoid giving us information about what he can and cannot do. But consider this -- if Kronos had wished to continue the old Game, and been capable, he would have had to take on the Words of Hell and support them when the Lightbringer died. He did not, or you would not _be_ here -- you would be somewhere else, _knowing_ what you are trying to decide. Save Kronos, the old Princes are accounted for -- dead, prisoner, or redeemed."

He takes a breath, with clenched fists. "Had you your Word, you would be able to feel it, perchance. Or perchance not, and that might tell us something as well. But you _don't_ , and _Kronos_ will not return it to you, not even if you can make the board of this room reflect the board before Lilith kicked it over.

"From my Word, the battle map is the same, but the weapons are new. I half-expect that any moment I shall be Archangel of the Plowshare, or that my wings shall pale and bleach upon my back. That some of the rules seem familiar does not mean the entire battle is identical. And if you persist in that belief... you will _lose_ , Asmodeus. Not from being outplayed, not from an honest mistake, but from willful blindness and betrayal of the Word that you once held."

Finally, the former Prince rises to his feet, visibly irritated. "You are incorrect on all points," he says shortly. "Fate is still an active factor and kingpiece. Whether or not the pieces of its color have been sacrificed and discarded --" (and his emotions whisper hurt at the betrayal, and validation) "-- is not important. It is in play. Armageddon was, perhaps, the turning point between middle-game and endgame, or at least the dealing out of a set of players, but no true shift in _phase_. You are mistaking the outer trappings -- the War -- for the true setup of the Game: unsurprisingly, as you are part of those trappings."

He takes a breath, his voice quieter. "I hardly expect Fate to take pieces from the discard pile. To believe you have _contained_ it is the same misplay that the sealing of Hell was."

Laurence has his own Distinctions, and does not show that provoking a Djinn counts as favorable to him. "Contained? No. Besieged? Mayhap. _We_ control the Principalities now." He pauses and takes a breath in turn. "You are, however, more experienced, from Fall to the Lightbringer's death. I do not see why these turning points do not signify the pause between the end of one match and potential beginning of another."

This moment stretches longer, with thought and logic and emotion tangling together in ways that he wants to reject, but finally accepts as a Damascus folding. With the steel in his voice, he says, "Teach me."

* * *

"I'm worried about him," Marc says, as they walk corporeal streets, through a warm rain. "I think I can keep him stable for a while, but..."

"But he's not able to compensate?"

"He's worried about it. I'm not sure that it's not partly a feedback problem, but how do you tell an Elohite that it's second-guessing itself -- without making it do so more?"

"We should keep it assigned in areas with my Servitor, and her Elohite Judge."

The other Archangel nods. "Thank you. And if you think of anything else..."

"I'm working on the matter. If not him, an heir. I will work my way down to my own Servitor if I must."

"Lilith will be upset, with a Daughter elevated."

Laurence stumbles a little. "You think so?"

"I think..." Marc frowns. "I think you should ask first, if it comes to that."

"Not the excuse I'd hoped, to try to contact her."

* * *

"Some pieces are more Game than others," Laurence points out, waving at the Lilim who crouches and listens blankly by the mattress. "Her, for instance. I know there are pieces held in trust."

"No," the former Prince says. "They are more aware of their part in the Game, and thus more capable of informed Play -- but all are pieces within the Game. All pieces, all players, are part of the Game."

(He does not reiterate why he has even agreed to this discussion, to teach an Archangel so that Archangel might give him the key he lacked -- what piece _he_ was, when he had thought himself Player.)

Laurence blinks, and lets his incredulous smile show. "The Game -- as the entire Symphony? Is there nothing within the Symphony that does not fit within the Word?"

Asmodeus actually smiles in return, if that twitch of his lips counts as a smile. "Correct."

Laurence stares a moment, not quite stunned, but integrating this while the Djinn waits with the patience of his Band -- then chuckles. "All right. I grant that the Word could map better than most, though I believe there are noticeable lacunae in the way you've been interpreting it."

"Lacunae?" Asmodeus queries, with interest. (And at least he acknowledges that there might be some; small victory, in Laurence's mind.) His emotions taste of interest in finding flaws in his _analysis_ , if not the Word itself.

The debate that follows is predictable, of honor and caring and the value of the same, but Laurence has spent a long time learning from Archangels. What wisdom he may glean from a desperately self-deluded Djinn... he will, and he prays that he may use what he learns so that one day, he will have a Cherub to advise him.

_Or further,_ he thinks and keeps to himself and his prayers of hope. The duel is different. The Game has changed, no matter what Asmodeus believes.

* * *

The Ofanite whirls onto the Seraphim Council floor, a bit uncertainly, clutching a bit of paper. From the observers' seats, a Bright of Lightning watches, worried and protective.

"Um," says the Ofanite. "I've got a memo..."

Dominic gives Jean a _look_ from beneath the cowl. "You didn't tell him."

Jean says, calmly, "It wasn't necessary. This will be faster."

Laurence says, "Kai. Ofanite of Creation, in service to Lightning."

"Um. Yes. Sir," the Ofanite adds as an afterthought.

Laurence gives Jean a glance, but the Elohite is acting as if his screens are of more import to him at the moment -- and perhaps they are. Another glance shows that Dominic is manifesting enough of a human seeming to pinch at his nose beneath his cowl. (Even as he cradles the Force Catcher prison to a Shedite.)

So, with a sigh, Laurence says, "Kai, Jean and Israfel have sponsored you for the Word of Dance."

Kai nearly falls over, becoming a distinctly lopsided and diagonal Wheel. "... _ME_?"

"You."

The gyrations are inelegant with shock, but -- in part because he is looking -- Laurence can see the raw beginnings of the Ofanite finding its metaphoric footing again. "But, um, why? Sir?"

(To the side, Jean shows the faint traces of an Elohite smile.)

Laurence folds his arms and leans forward against the podium. "Can you please explain your beliefs regarding Judgment, Kai?"

"Well... They're trying to keep an eye on us, like Dad wanted." Sorrow, there, as any Orphan of Creation would have. "He couldn't have gone off to do... whatever it was that he had to, without Judgment looking after us all. I know not everyone thinks that, but I really don't understand why they don't see it, because it's really obvious to me and I'm babbling, sorry, sir, shutting up now."

(In the observer's seats, the Lightning Lilim drops his face into his hands briefly.)

"I think," Laurence says -- while comments are Sung into the back of his mind from the Council members, "that fresh approaches have much to recommend themselves. Are you willing to be considered for the Word of Dance?"

Kai whirls. "I... You're _sure_?"

It's Marc who, amused, says, "You are so lucky that sarcasm is hard to do in angelic."

Laurence adds, "I could make it an order..."

"No, sir! I mean, yes, sir! I mean..." Kai whirls again. "I mean, I'd love to try for it!"

(Laurence does not look at the empty place in Council, where this Orphan does not know to look. He will imagine a parent-proud Mercurian there.)

* * *

Asmodeus goes still, mid-sentence, face and posture almost serene in their blankness. (Elohite resonance reveals... merely faint, detached realization; an epiphany behind glass.) The Djinn had picked up a checker-piece to demonstrate a point to the Archangel, and not even now does he drop it. Perhaps a second more of that numbness before the loss and _hurt_ begin to settle in, the former Game almost surprised at his own complete helplessness. 

With exquisite care, Asmodeus kneels to place the cheap plastic checker-piece on the floor. It's out of character; Laurence can see that at once, but resonance does not explain it. The Djinn rises again, slowly, to look through -- not quite _at_ \-- the Malakite Archangel.

"I see no reason," the Djinn says, very carefully, "to continue the discussion." His voice is soft, almost a whisper, and his hands have begun, almost imperceptibly, to shake.

Laurence resonates, of course. Quietly, he says, "What discussion should we have, then?"

"None," Asmodeus says, still with that too-soft voice, and the despair and fatalism in his emotions make Laurence glad he is Malakite and not Elohite from birth. It has sunk in, finally, that no amount of explaining the Game, no amount of trying to recreate it in his cell, will retrieve the Prince's lost Word and power. The delusion has shattered, with the thousand little cuts that the Sword delivered in their long discussion, and it is only his Band-nature that gives him solace from the grief.

"Asmodeus..." Laurence sighs, quietly. "If Jean can have his Angel of the Media, I think I might manage something akin to that. If only you will gamble, with the dice as weighted as we can make them."

The Djinn's gaze sharpens, actually focusing now. "Weighted dice..." he repeats, quietly. "If the die only has a single number on all sides, the weight doesn't matter. But it was only rolled once."

"We have the time to carve the faces of the die, as long as you can bear it."

"As long as required."

* * *

Nybbas, made Archangel, is almost humanly confusing. "Angel Prince," he insists he is, and his Superior seeming has ivory leather wings instead of feathers of any sort. Cocky, fast-talking, opinionated, seemingly cruising for a Fall or seeing how far he can go before someone smacks him down.

Laurence is sometimes tempted, but Jean and Marc move in for softer diversionary tactics -- and they work well enough.

He's an abrasive "Impucurian," to be sure, but he knows his Word, and he spins it into something new. Something with fakery to horrify Seraphim (Litheroy rants at him and Jean as if there were some personal insult intended, shortly after Nybbas is elevated, until Laurence steps in and silences all concerned on the topic) -- but then turning around with truths and astounding beauty, and around again with intermingled pabulum and perfection.

It's a cheering -- if unkindly so -- revelation that Nybbas cannot _stop_ being tapped into the Media, and every Muzak Christmas carol is feeding right into his brain.

Hunting the inevitable Christmas monstrosities in the Marches -- Vampire Santas, cannibal elves, predatory pine trees -- is something that, amazingly, they can both enjoy.

Laurence has not been Commander of the Host this long without learning how to avoid certain buttons, though. Creation, and Freedom, are topics to dodge.

Someday, he plots, he will hand the wrangling of the Council over to the Media for a week. Either Nybbas will be humbled, the Council will behave themselves for fear of a repeat, or he'll be so good at it that Laurence can let him do it again and again. Really, he can't see a down-side there.

* * *

"You were _wrong,_ " the Habbalite screams through tears. "You were _wrong_ and I was _right_ , was _right_ to break it all apart with the Word God put there to serve us! It was betrayal that won you the War!"

Laurence remembers when the Habbalite had been made -- Elohite, just a few years younger than himself, new and shining and Pure. Remembers when it swore fealty to the Sword, and the relief that Laurence's fellows did not all think him inadequate to the task.

Remembers when its Heart was shattered.

Remembers when he saw its name on the reports from Judgment, Habbalite of Factions.

Slowly, Laurence says, "It was betrayal... bought in pain. If you glory in what you do with the face you show Hell, then you do not serve God. It is no sacrifice."

The demon reaches out, and Laurence steps forward, into the range of the chain that tethers it to the wall. It puts its hands on his shoulders and clenches them in the fabric of his shirt. "What did _she_ sacrifice, then?"

Laurence thinks of a woman who cannot be sure if her heart cares, centuries upon centuries of Balseraphic lies clouding her judgment, and who runs from safety to protect others. "Everything," he whispers, and blinks away tears. "Everything she was, and could have been."

"Why doesn't it count when _I_ do it, brother?"

"At the end, who were you fighting against? Whose army were you in?"

Its shoulders slump, and it begins to weep against his chest. "The wrong one. The wrong one."

He puts his arms around it, and strokes its hair. "Come back to us?"

The aching joy at its nod is tempered with the necessity of pulling away a manifestation from his other projects -- and with knowing that a Fallen Cherub, in a cell in Flowers' Gehenna, will likely die with a similar agreement.

* * *

The Seraphim Council sings, and in the singing, binds a Word. And when the Singing is over, the new Angel of Dance says, "Woooooooooooooooow."

"Rise," Laurence says. (Commander of the Host, and so he stands in lieu of the Orphan's Archangel, and no one mentions that this is not the ritual.) "Rise... and Dance."

Kai laughs, whirling around and around and around, with the vessel-seeming within the rings spinning on a pointed toe. "Wooooo! This is... is... is... _wow_."

It makes him smile. He whispers remembered words, from questions he'd asked of the few Creationers who came to him. "Go... play. Have fun. Be cool."

Being hugged by an enthusiastic, newly Word-bound Wheel is... an interesting sensation. In another manifestation, he makes a note to let someone _else_ be targeted when they manage to elevate the Ofanite to Archangel. Perhaps Dominic.

* * *

How to convince a betrayed Djinn that, just perhaps, forgiveness might go both ways? Laurence has faith in God, and Asmodeus has nothing but distrust.

He's not sure how to proceed.

His sympathy... He is God's own Sword. He could not feel this _sympathy_ if it were not God's will. (For did not God take up Laurence personally? Lift him to Archangel and give him Command? And in that forging, his soul bare to the Lord's touch, anything could have been placed in his heart. Anything.)

_I'm sorry you're hurt_ , he says, wishing that somehow, he could furl and unfurl his wings and cut through time to save a confused and breaking Cherub -- and stop entire the need for a pact that would last down the ages until it ended in pain.

* * *

"I hear you're asking for me," he says to a young-seeming soul who stands in the front of his Cathedral. The blessed spirit is named Jacob, Mercurian resonance tells him... and then that resonance tells him rather less.

"You're the one Lady Una sees, aren't you?" the teenager asks. "So you'll send me back now, right?"

"Ah." He doesn't blink, but he does allow himself a quirk of a shadow of a smile. "I don't follow your logic."

"I _serve_ her, like my father before me. I can't serve her like _this_. You know her. You can send me back, some of the other angels say. So for her, you'll do that."

"She might not want to take you back, you know. She's... paranoid, about who might be an angelic agent." The ghost of a quirk of a shadow of a smile. He wants to laugh, and go to Earth, and find a complicated immortal woman so that he can swing her around in delight.

The teen gives him a look of disgust, despite that Laurence isn't entirely shielding his Superior aura of power and charisma. "I think that's for Lady Una to decide. I'm _her_ vassal." (Elohite resonance tells him that Jacob is covering uncertainty and nervousness, but the firm belief of his words is bemusing.)

"I can't promise," Laurence says. "But I'll find her and ask. It's not a trivial power expenditure, to make a Saint."

He taps one of his Mercurians to escort Jacob, and goes searching for the human's... patron.

* * *

Lilith doesn't answer his Song -- though he has to admit he's not surprised, since he didn't _mention_ the unexpected blessed soul. Laurence goes looking for Jean for suggestions (and does not get the expected, "So don't make this a surprise"), and after a moment, is given a corporeal location.

A graveyard. A funeral. A _wake_ , with torches lit and the sun like blood on the horizon while mourners keen and sing, and dancers whir like Ofanim amongst the gravestones. And at the center of the dancing, a trio of women -- one dark-skinned, with her hair graying, one clearly her daughter, and the last with ashes on her face and red-black hair. Two men nearby are husbands, with fiddle and harmonica. Essence weeps around them all, spent in the performing to make mortal instruments into something that raises the hair of even a listening Archangel in the trees on the edges of the graveyard.

Wings flap near him, and a small gray parrot settles on his shoulder. "Sir," it whispers.

Laurence identifies the reliever, Lightning in service to Freedom, and he can guess why that latter -- spying and heart's hope both. "The lad's in Heaven now, demanding a vessel of me, for that I am known to 'Lady Una.'"

Maharang (the younger) chirps, startled. "Oh. My. Er..."

He looks out over the mourners. Family by blood and marriage and choice. And so many of them... are fighters of monsters, protectors of others. No wonder that the young man had met his destiny, perhaps. "He never expected to go to Heaven, did he."

The reliever flips its wings nervously. "They... er. No, sir. They... dance their dead into the next life. Usually."

"This happens often?"

"Not _so_ often. But sometimes."

"Mm-hm." He smiles. "Back to your guard-perch, child. I'll be fading out this vessel soon."

* * *

It's easy, easy to find Jacob in Heaven. Easy to gain his consent. Easy to use the Song of Projection, one black-winged angel leading a human soul into the dance, and then releasing the new-vesseled Saint into the arms of his parents, grandparents, and siblings.

Easy to sweep a bow to Lilith. Easy to whisper, "I know it's interference, but-"

Surprisingly easy to let his words be cut off by her intense kiss, with her hands knotted in his shirt, fisted against his back and holding him tightly. Usually, she lets him set their pace, and usually that's what leaves him breathless and reeling with the implications. Yet this warms his heart in other ways, tasting her tears of grief and joy.

The voice that distracts them is a child's. "Lady Una made the Angel of Death give him _back_!"

He glances at the trio of children, their eyes and smiles glittering brightly in the torchlight, and then back with wry humor at their very understandable error.

Lilith's expression mirrors his. She slides her hands down to his, and he lifts her fingers to his lips. Then he unfurls his wings, his vessel spinning back to potentiality, and fades away.

Her Song of Tongues follows him: **Been learning from Nybbas, have you?**

He certainly can't deny it.

* * *

Tactical information goes onto Memory Pearls, in this redemption of a Prince. Every one is in its small box, the contents labeled by the shell-shocked Lilim Countess, according to her master's dictation. The boxes are upon shelves, within easy sight -- and easy touch.

And jewel by fresh-created jewel, everything that has been the Prince of the Game goes into storage.

Laurence thinks he will ask if, perhaps, they want to go a step farther, and put away his grudges as well. If Asmodeus cannot remember _why_ he is angry with God, will he also forget to resist, in one last self-destructive act of spite?

He watches the Lilim and her fixed expression, so much of her mind clearly devoted to _not_ thinking about the deadline that drifts closer with every relic labeled.

She is the clear heir, should the Prince die. And should he live, her skills should return to his service.

But for kindness (kindness! to a demon who has not even whispered of redemption!), Staciel will be drugged again when it comes time for her Prince to walk into the Light.

* * *

Laurence leans on the door-frame and watches the last students file out of the... Well, he'd call it a salle if it were fencing. Classroom, perhaps. (For a change, he also notices the looks he gets, and -- even more oddly to his mind -- simply accepts them without dismay.)

"Sir!" The Ofanite whirls over, eyes wide. "Is something wrong?"

"Probably somewhere," Laurence sighs. "But I'm just here to see how you're doing, Kai."

The Angel of Dance blinks at him, shifting from foot to foot. "I'm... fine. Um. Sir, I've been thinking."

He smiles at... her? him? Kai's vessel is difficult to place, even in tightish stretch-jeans and a loose shirt. "Jean cosponsored you for the Word. I'm not surprise you've been thinking."

"It's a big Word."

"It can be."

Kai insists, "It's big, like Music and Art."

"We know."

With supernatural grace, Kai slumps to its knees and stares up at him. "Ohnoyou'regonnamakemean _Arch_ angel?"

_So this is how Jean feels sometimes?_ Laurence replies, "It's certainly one of the Council's plans, yes. Not today, though. Would you like..." He tries to think of the right offer. "...some coffee?"

"Ice cream?"

He blinks. "At the same time?"

"This is a coffee ice cream kinda day. Um, sir."

Laurence offers the other angel a hand up. Unnecessary, but polite. "All right."

* * *

Watching Nybbas wrangle the Council is... entertaining, in ways that he's going to have to confess and atone for, later. Especially since he made sure that several thorny issues were scheduled for discussion. On the other wingtip, Nybbas _is_ better at managing the many different threads of conversation that flow into the designated coordinator's mind with Songs and more overt waving of wings or hands or rings.

Marc's Song finds its way into Laurence's mind. **Enjoying yourself?**

**Yes. Sitting on my hands to keep from interfering, too. You?**

**I'm keeping him from getting into a fist-fight with Michael. And Litheroy. At the same time.**

**I see why it was Jean who kept him in service.**

**That too.**

Laurence smiles over at Marc, and then raises his hand to debate something that's been said. "Point of order," he calls, and waits -- patiently -- for Nybbas to acknowledge him.

* * *

Finally, the last Memory Pearls are within their cases, and the tattered Emerald Countess is curled on the mattress beside them -- drugged into unconsciousness.

Laurence hands the Prince-that-was a Pearl then. "I don't know if this will help, but you could... put your memories of... _why_ on this one. It won't change the emotions, but it might help you... change." _And you said you wanted to change,_ he leaves hanging in the air between them.

Asmodeus reaches out and takes it, holding it in his fingers. (A lesser being might have rolled it there, but this one is too proud, even now.) His emotions shine with disdain, but he holds it from his words. "And when I remember again?"

_I'll have a squad of Elohim to debate with you._ "Then you'll have to decide again."

"And if it produces the same results?"

"I'll gamble otherwise." _With weighted dice and a stacked deck._

"It would be simpler to deprive me of the memory. It... might not impair my functioning."

"You're trusting me to bring you through this." With logic, with his head and not his heart, Djinn-sworn to never trust again because trust only brought pain. "Trust me with not just your life, but _you_."

Those eyes are mere glimmers of what they'd been when Asmodeus was Prince. Disapproval. Dismay. Irritation.

Thoughtfully, Laurence says, "I... don't have any good way of telling if you use the Pearl, you know. Especially if I don't resonate. I must simply trust you to make the decision that will help us most."

Asmodeus raises the Pearl to his lips, and holds it there a moment, before dropping it on the bed beside his Lilim. "Shall we go?"

Laurence opens the door for them.

* * *

It's hard. The only reason it's not harder than he expected is because he expected it would be _bad_. Nybbas had loved his Word so much that he gave everything to get it back; Asmodeus will not even permit himself to truly care about _that_ , and the Light sears off the poor shadows of shields that the demon attempts to raise around his core, Symphony overwhelming symphony as the flood overwhelms drops of water. Or as the Red Sea closed over the Egyptians, but don't think about those deaths, no _time_ to think of that, as Forces crisp and emotions flood into the Djinn and the chief of them is _panic_.

Laurence will not let him bolt, and grabs his arms -- that are arms, and forelegs, and tentacles wrapped around chitin and bone. He had held himself a little apart, at first, out of respect for the once-Prince's dignity, but contact is _necessary._ Contact, and holding in the Light (there is nowhere to run, and even Novalis says that it's harder if you drop them out in the middle), with only a little shade from his feathers curling around them. Contact, and one hand around the curls of horns on Asmodeus' head, and claws scrabbling barely-noticed against his skin. "You _promised_ you would try, and _I_ promised I would see you through," Laurence says, with all the Command in his voice.

"Let me go!" the Djinn wails, pride and dignity forgotten in pain and panic.

And in the first, easiest, Purest form of his Distinction, Laurence says, " _ **No.**_ "

The expression, the widened eyes -- something clicks into place. Asmodeus raises his claws and locks them around Laurence's wrists. There's no time to analyze the emotions behind it, as Asmodeus closes his eyes and lets his serpentine neck fall backwards, helpless sounds of pain and grief hissing through his fangs. No time at all, as Laurence spreads wide his wings again to take the small window of opportunity... the small window of _hope_.

The Symphony does not give him even much of that.

_**Trust** is not a synonym for 'let someone **else** take responsibility for me dissolving into the Symophony.'_ He doesn't say it. He barely has room to _think_ it, in the frantic patching of Forces -- saving the last ones, the pre-donated ones, for Ethereal losses. There's a surge of unraveling, as Djinn apathy slides into anger and rejection, and Laurence chooses to patch the Celestial Forces as the last Corporeal ones wisp into the Symphony.

The next crisis point loses several Ethereal Forces, and Laurence decides to hold some of the replacements for later, assuming this works at _all_. Forces, Forces, grabbed at random from the Symphony when he has a few seconds of relative smooth work, and there's another Corporeal tacked on...

That sloughs off again in the next wave, frustratingly, as he tries to keep the bonds between the core Forces from burning away. He can't spare time, for it's a nightmare of holding the knots together with the crucial few left...

It bursts on Laurence, a revelation divine, that the process is not just a collection of Forces which insist on dissolving and burning to ash.

The process is trying to save a life. Trying to save a frightened, unhappy Cherub. The collection of Forces within his hands has a name. Has a _face_. Has a history of grief and rage, and some part before the whole Fall...

Needs to be held, and loved.

He wraps his wings and arms around the small, small celestial, and in the brief shadow of his feathers, he whispers, "I have you. Please don't leave me. You promised to try."

And then he must let the Light back in, and try to save a life with it.

* * *

"What's the best part of being an Archangel?"

Laurence pauses, spoon above the double-coffee mocha chip ice cream that the Creationer had broken out as soon as she'd seen Laurence on her doorstep. "Redemptions."

Kai takes a bite of her own dessert. "Thought so. I bet they'd be my fave, too."

* * *

At the end, when he's sure that the worst is over, Laurence folds in a scant two Ethereal Forces from the saved ones. They join the pair of Celestial Forces that he cradles in his hand, and a golden creature -- not quite a reliever, though nearly -- lifts its head to blink at him with eyes like stained glass blood. "Father?" it asks.

Laurence blinks away tears. "No, little one," he whispers. "Would that I were. Would that I had a better gift to give you."

"Gift?"

"Gifts of joy and gifts of pain, little one. But not till you can bear them."

"It's not fair," the little Cherub whispers.

"Then... a gift of free will. You can choose to leave them all behind, and take a new name, a new life, child of the Sword, and all that you were... dead in redemption. Or you can take up a name with a story and memories, a name of darkness and blood -- but a future... reforged, with responsibilities and a Word. And Servitors waiting for you."

Little paws work against Laurence's hands, with tiny claws pricking at his skin. "What do you want me to do?"

Laurence holds the scrap of Forces and fluff. "I want you to be happy. If that's by facing the past and forging it into a future -- or if it's by walking away and leaving your past behind... The important part is that you be happy with your choice."

"Do I have to choose right away?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "No, little one. You don't. Those who have waited this long can wait a little longer."

The little Cherub closes its brilliant red eyes and lays its head against Laurence's forearm. He pets it gently, and is glad that there is even this much hope.


	65. Silence of Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prequel chapter

* * *

* * *

The Lower Hells were always cold. She came to them wrapped in furs -- a useless conceit, for souls generated no true warmth. The only thing that kept her from becoming brittle ice was the Name burning inside her.

And the leather wings and scaled coils that wrapped around her in greeting, sliding her furs away.

After, she said, "Why down here?" She trailed her fingertips along his jaw, following the grain of scales.

"I think better down here. It's quieter."

_Farther from the Name. Though, the one thing the Name could not unmake was that piece of itself that gave each thing Free Will. If it was created with Free Will in the first place, of course._

She deliberately misunderstood. "You could ask them to be more quiet, up there."

"You know what I mean." His voice was amused.

"Mm. Still, it is depressing up there. Why must the damned be enslaved?"

He snorted, his nose in her hair. His tone was gentle reproof, still amused. "Lilith. They are not our equals. They are not our masters."

"If celestials are better than mortals, then why slavery? Why not just herd them off and only let them back when they can behave themselves?"

"Ah, but then they'd go form tribes and enslave each other -- humans do, you know -- and next you'd have us doing _outreach programs_ to try to teach them better, and isn't that a form of servitude? Isn't that what _angels_ do?"

She was silent, discontent, tracing the patterns of ice in his scales.

"I understand. It's your Word speaking. I knew it would be a difficult one for you."

_I will not be your slave, Lucifer, any more than I will be God's slave. If you want my help, you will ensure my freedom._ "It is worth it."

"But it does give you certain ideals, my dear. Words do. The larger, the more extreme -- they find the places where reality folds and crinkles, and the Word cannot hold without certain consequences. This is one of them, that's all."

"Yes. I... know. It's still frustrating."

"Well, and that's why we are down here. There are no slaves here, are there?"

She kissed his neck. "No."

Perhaps it was a little warmer.


	66. Expectations (CW: language)

* * *

* * *

It was a very dark night, even with the streetlights. Overcast. Hot and muggy, though, which was why Rally was wearing the short shorts and the half T-shirt with her high-laced boots. Flat heels, good for running in; her parents insisted. Especially her grandmother, who Rally was named after.

Her grandmother the sorceress, Ralinda, but for all that Rally shared the name, she didn't share the power. She didn't hear what her mother heard, what her grandmother heard, when they listened to the universe. She couldn't spin the air with her fingers, and cast the nets out into the world with her will anchoring them down where she wanted them.

And Rally couldn't outrun or outfight the three men who'd chased her, in their car, till she was out in the open of a roundabout with no one else noticing or caring, and so out of breath that her ribs burned like cold fire. All she could do was hunch over and try to breathe, try to watch as two of them got out of the car and headed for her. They weren't walking right together -- no way to dash except straight back, and the car'd already shown it could catch her trying _that_.

It wasn't fair. But that was life. Sometimes you could make what was right, with your own two hands, and sometimes you hoped for a miracle. Sometimes you got one. Sometimes you didn't.

Rally just had to get out of this alive. If she got out of it alive, she could use her own two hands and her family to deal with the rest.

"Heeeeey, there, little whore," one of the men said. He didn't sound much older than her brother. He didn't even sound _meaner_ than her brother, except for the last word there. "Chill, chill. We just wanna..."

"Shut up," the other one snapped. "We're not supposed to wear out who we find, and god knows what she's got."

Rally clenched her fists. She'd caught flashes of their faces, when they'd first tried to accost her. Pale skin, all three. Assumptions about her, just 'cause she was dressed for the weather and in the wrong neighborhood -- and born dark as roasted coffee beans when they were pale as peaches. Her grandparents muttered about how the end of the world should have made humans less prejudiced about other humans, but hadn't. Even for sorcerers. Rally called, "I'm just trying to get home, that's all. Leave me alone!"

The second one said, "Look, you little cunt, we're sent out to fetch back a whore, and that's what we're doing. You name a price, and you'll get it -- otherwise, you're giving it away. Understand?"

Fury and fear chased themselves in her stomach. Rally tried to give the fury part her energy, feeding it up to something that might help. "You want a price? Fine. Five thousand -- and a lock of hair from everyone involved!"

They didn't laugh. They didn't even act confused. They acted like that was... something real.

"Shit," the first one said. "She's a fuckin' voodoo..."

"Shut _up_ ," the second one snapped again. "Fine. Five thousand, and hair from anyone you fuck."

"If I see..." She made herself break from family refinement, family manners that said "you keep your language clean, so's people'll know you're not trash," and think of words that these trash would think were right. "If I see or touch someone's dick... dick or pussy, or someone puts _anything_ in me, I get a lock of that person's hair."

The two of them looked at each other for a moment. The first one said, " _I_ ain't touching her."

The second looked back to her, his face all shadows and weirdly lit from the streetlights. "Okay. Deal."

"And I _live_ through this," she insisted.

"Deal, deal," he said, so easy that she thought he'd never figured she wouldn't.

Rally took a breath. _Oh, mom an' grandma, and Lady Una, be thinkin' 'bout me._ "Okay, then. Where we going?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes away. The Blue Velvet." The second man waved back the first as he spoke, both of them backing away slowly.

_The Blue Velvet's closed. Isn't it?_ Rally followed, hoping hoping hoping that she wasn't losing a chance to run. Hoping they'd be scared enough that she was a "voodoo" to keep some kind of deal. Three of them and one of her, and she didn't know if even her dirty-fighting lessons could take them all. Especially with one in the car. _Especially_ if they _weren't_ after rape, but just the first prostitute (or what their prejudice'd make them see as one) they found.

It was still terrible to have to get in the car, with the first one who'd spoken in the back seat with her. She reached for the seat-belt, and then just looped it around her arm to hang onto. Probably better to be able to jump out of the car if she had to, and got a chance.

The driver said, "She gonna cooperate now?"

The second-speaker, who apparently snapped a lot, snapped again. "Yeah, she's gonna cooperate. Five thou, and a lock of hair from anyone she gets with."

The driver was quiet. "You sure we got a hooker?"

"I guess she was off-duty and we're paying overtime," the snappish one retorted.

As the car pulled away, the driver said, "She's too damn skinny for me anyway."

They didn't talk during the ride. Didn't do more than slow down for turns, either. This part of town, this late at night, not many cars. Not too many people, either. The new developments up in the north side of town had pulled everyone who wasn't staying south out of stubbornness.

Rally's family had property up north, that they'd sold cheap for southside lots, and outright donated some of. Kept only enough to put a good house on, for her grandparents, up by where the hospitals and take-out places were. Rally's folks, though, stayed south -- out of stubbonness, and to take care of the graveyards that held the family dead. Honor and respect and beer poured for the spirits on the holy-days.

The family patrolled the edges of their southside property. Supposed to be just the awakened ones, who could twist a little spell, and smell when someone else did. (Her brother said it smelled like things burning -- incense when Grandma Ralinda did it, or wet, nasty things when it was some rogue. Her sister said that it made her hair prickle up instead, and she didn't get what their brother's nose had to do with it.)

Rally wasn't supposed to go on patrol yet. Too young. No aptitude for the spells. (Not yet, anyway.) But she'd been trying anyway, since they'd said the streets were quiet the last week.

Damn bad luck. Rally tried to edit that in her mind. Darn bad luck.

The Blue Velvet Gentleman's Club was dark, but the connected garage gates opened when the driver pulled up by them, and they drove through.

Nervous, with the gates closing behind, Rally said, "I live through this, right? You swear? _All_ of you?" She stared at the one in the back seat with her, who'd called her a voodoo.

"Yeah, dammit," snapped the angry one.

"Far as I know," muttered the driver.

She kept glaring at the third one until, eyes locked on hers, he said, "I'm not _touching_ you! Don't piss off the master, that's all!"

Rally thought that had some honesty to it, and she settled back a little as they parked.

She hopped out herself, and darted a little ways away from the car -- from the cars, she saw, looking around in the darkness, picking out gleams in the backwash of the one's headlights on the concrete wall.

The angry one got out of the car and went to a door, opening it with jingling keys, before the driver shut off the car. Then the only light was from the hallway behind the door. The scared one stood by the car, looking like he was supposed to collect her, and not wanting to go near her.

The driver went to the door. "C'mon. The sooner we do this, the better."

Rally took a step toward the scared one, and he backed away, after the other two. So she kept her eyes on him and followed them all into the hallway. It wasn't too bright, but still nearly dazzling after the dark parking garage. Rally kept her eyes away from the fake-candle lights on the walls, and the glowing EXIT sign above the door they'd come in. At least it wasn't so hot, in here. There was air conditioning somewhere in the building, with a faint, subliminal hum.

The three men -- driver and scared one dark-haired, with the snappish man a medium-brown -- headed for the staff area, instead of turning toward the main club lounge, or whatever things like that were called. Rally didn't know. Everyone in the family'd hardly cared when the Blue Velvet closed up shop.

She thought she heard footsteps from the darkened customer area. Imagination or no, she hurried after her three kidnappers. After a few wary or nervous glances, they seemed to decide she wasn't about to run off, and didn't look back so much, so she could look around more.

Boring, generic, back hall-ways, where waitstaff and dancers could travel and no one'd needed to pay to make it pretty for a customer. She wondered, as they passed a unisex restroom with its little humanoid icons, if she could get some time in there. But there wasn't any reason; she hadn't taken a cellcom with her, and they'd probably just hover. She didn't want to have her panties down with them around.

No matter what she'd apparently agreed to.

_Don't think about that yet, Rally. Don't think about it,_ she told herself.

A turn past the bathroom, they went down a stairway. The door, as she passed it, read _Furnace_. It was warmer down there, stuffy and hot after the slight coolness of the hall, and...

She smelled incense. Not like her brother did, she thought, but she smelled it. Faint, but not in time. Faint from distance, and getting stronger. The blend... Rally sniffed again. Something protective, like her mother set out every evening, to keep the house safe. And a twist of something she'd scented before, poking through her mother's workroom, that hadn't ever been used that she'd seen.

Maybe it was less surprising that they'd taken her demands seriously.

She imagined that there was whispering around her, as they walked down another hallway. A whispering of unfamiliar voices saying the same words of protection her parents and siblings did. She was pretty sure it was just her imagination.

Finally, the angry one held open a door, the driver went in, and other two looked at her expectantly.

So she went in, with a blast of air-conditioning chilling her skin to goosebumps.

It was a long room, narrow, with lots of television screens set into the wall. Most of them were dark, but not all. There were scenes of the upstairs, around the club, with the contrast set weird so that it seemed brighter than it was. There was a large room, with bits of machinery set up, and a few robed people moving around a pattern on the floor (only vaguely distinct in the camera image) while they held lit bundles of incense. And there was one small room, with a cot, and a man sitting on it.

It was easier to look at the television screens, but she made herself only glance at each, before she looked at the people in the room.

One looked like just a security thug. The other one... He could have been someone's father. Amber skin, probably with Mexican heritage. Dark hair. Neat suit, and a tie. A kind smile. She smiled back, and thought that it felt a lot like the time her brother'd charmed her with a spell, so she'd do his chores.

"Five thousand," the driver was saying. "And a lock of hair for anyone she's, er, with, sir."

"And you promised to this, George?" the man said.

"Yes, sir." George-the-driver took a breath. "Sorry, sir."

"Not at all, not at all. In these trying times, there are many who understand snatches of the old ways." He smiled at Rally again. "George, go fetch five thousand out of the safe."

George-the-driver headed out of the room, and Rally managed to look that way long enough to see that the other two had stayed out. Then the "sir" man was talking.

"My dear, I'm sure they were very rude, but you're quite safe now." (And she did feel safe, like her legs wanted to finally unlock and let her collapse in relief. The little part of her brain that had gone "what? _what?_ " at her brother's spell... was doing it again. This time she listened.) "Now, the employment you've agreed to, well, it's not as bad as they probably made it out to be. We've a young guest, and... Hm, how to say this."

"You wanted to hire someone for his, er, night? Er, sir?"

He beamed at her. "Excellent, my dear. And you may call me Mister Smith if you want."

"Yes, sir." It slipped out of her mouth like wet candy, slick with sharp, artificial tastes under the sweet.

Smith chuckled. "In any case, there's really no delicate way to explain this. We need someone to test the boy's virtue." He waved at the screen. "So if you could do everything possible, short of forcing him, to entice his interest, well, you'll have earned your five thousand. And if you get his, mm, interest, a lock of his hair."

She looked at the screen. Black-and-white, but the guy there didn't seem that old. Maybe a bit darker-skinned, but that was hard to tell. Could just be shadows. "I don't want people watching," she said, without thinking.

"We do need to keep an eye on your success, my dear. I assure you we won't be recording it."

Rally swallowed. "Then I want a blanket, please. And... a pack of condoms."

Smith looked at the security guard. "Jeff, tell Rick and John out there to see to it." He smiled at Rally again, as the guard moved to the door. "Done."

"How--" She had to swallow again, her mouth was so dry, even with Smith's charm running all over her like a shower. "How long do I try?"

"Till midnight, please. Well, a bit short of midnight. That's, mmm, three hours?" He checked his watch, all glitter-gold set with tiny diamond or zircons.

"'Kay." She rubbed her hands up and down her shoulders. "And after? I get to go?"

"Of course, my dear! Though, mm, I'd like to send you on at dawn. Quite untouched by anyone here, I assure you. Most of us will be using our, mm, vital energies for other things." Smith chuckled.

Rally nodded. _Oh, you're one of **those** kinds of traditions._ She managed to keep her teeth shut on the observation, even with the memory of her big sister's voice explaining, _You can't count on having been chaste the whole month, and you might need the ritual to work anyway, so we don't bother much with those books. Good to know 'em, but the neutral-to-tantric's got more flexibility._

Jeff-the-security-guard came back. "It's done, sir. Five, ten minutes."

"Excellent, Jeff." Mister Smith flashed him the smile of charm, and then put it back on Rally. "So, dear, do you still go to school?"

"Oh, yeah." She turned _mother insists_ into, "They'd miss me there."

"So you really are as young as you look. Well. How useful. You don't, mm, go into this part of town often?"

"Not this late at night," she admitted.

"Mm, mm." Mister Smith tapped his fingertips together, with his elbows on the chair arms. "You _will_ do all you can to tempt the lad, won't you, my dear? You did make a deal."

Rally looked at the young man in the monitor. "Yes. A deal."

The door opened, with George-the-driver. He handed a fat stack of bills, bound in a paper band, to Mister Smith, who riffled through them briefly before offering them to Rally. "Count them, my dear. Feel free."

She took the money. It was too heavy. Or too light. Numbly, she turned the corners of them as if they were pages in a book, but she couldn't keep them all added up. Twentys and fiftys, mostly. No hundreds.

The other two showed up while she was trying to make the numbers make sense in her head. Blanket. Small plastic drugstore bag, with -- when she looked -- a box of condoms. The bag was dusty.

Rally dropped the money into the bag, since she didn't have big enough pockets in her shorts. She took the blanket; it smelled like something mildewed that'd been washed a few times, but not quite enough to get the stink out.

"Okay," she said, numb and scared more than even Mister Smith's charm-spell could touch. "I'm ready."

"Excellent, my dear. Rick, escort her to our guest's room, please."

Rick turned out to be the scared one, who didn't want to be around her. He edged out, and she followed, back into heat that was nice for a moment, after the cold security room, but got stuffy and oppressive quickly. The blanket was hot over her shoulder, and she could feel it getting damp from her sweat. Rally was glad when Rick headed back up the stairs, where a little air conditioning was still working.

"Why's it so hot down there?" she asked. Didn't their air conditioner spit out the heat somewhere else? It would be stupid to put all the hot air in the basement, where it would rise up, and make it more expensive to cool the rest of the building.

"Mister Smith says it's gotta be." Rick rolled his eyes around at her, spooked. "He says it's gotta be hot, and it needs to be dryer. Got a whole bank of dehumidifiers. But only in the furnace room."

"Oh."

They went up another set of stairs, to one of the "staff rooms" that the Blue Velvet had always pretended weren't for the customers, even though they were done up nice as hotels. There was another man standing there, who looked very Mexican. Rick-the-scared said, "The hooker. To, um..."

"Mister Smith told me what I needed to do," Rally said. "I'm ready, if you could open the door."

The guard did, and Rally made herself take the first step, and then the second one, and then she was inside the room.

It was stripped bare, with only the fake-candle lights by the door, except for the cot. She saw that the cot was bolted into the floor, and when the man moved a little, she noticed that he had a chain connected to one wrist-band, and the other -- longer than handcuffs, but not long enough for him to get far -- was shackled to the cot's front leg.

His skin was tawny, but with a narrow nose, and long, straight hair. _Romani?_ she wondered. The rest of him was thin, and she didn't think he was much older than she was -- not enough to get a growth spurt, anyway. His shirt was just a white t-shirt, and his jeans were just faded jeans. He didn't have any shoes. Only black socks.

She thought about having sex with him, and her brain just couldn't figure out where to start. He wasn't bad-looking, but... she didn't even know his name, or if he'd be nice, or... or anything.

"Hey," Rally said, finally, after they'd looked at each other a long moment.

He said, "What's in the bag?" And his voice was just a voice. Light, and high, but not so much that it hadn't already changed. Not sounding terrified, not sounding amused or happy. Just... a voice.

"Condoms," she said, because she couldn't think of anything else.

He nodded, slowly, and shifted on the bed. "You can come sit here if you want. But we're not going to need the condoms."

Rally made her feet move, trying to think of a plan. Something where she wouldn't have to do this. Or where she could live with herself if she did. She sat down on the bed and put the blanket at the foot of it, with the bag on the floor there. "You sure? I'm... They hired me... They got me off the street. For you."

"Very kind of them," he said dryly, in the tone of voice that meant he wasn't impressed at all. "Very considerate, to find me a fifteen year old 'hooker' to ease my last hours alive."

She twitched. "I'll be sixteen in a few months!" Her brain caught up. "Last hours?"

He put his hands on the bed behind them and leaned back. "They're planning to sacrifice me to some old god or other, and they want to make sure that they have a virgin offering. So it's my guess that they've decided to test my purity by making an offering of you."

"You mean, you've never..." She blinked.

He smiled at her, and it was a real one, not like Mister Smith's, for all that there was only ironic humor in it. "Above the waist only."

"So... if you, um, do it, they can't sacrifice you anymore?"

"That's the theory."

"They'll just let you go? I mean, no one's going to believe anyone's doing sacrifices to old gods. It's too weird."

He shrugged. "You're believing me."

"I'm..." _weird_ , she didn't say. "I saw one of the screens in the security room. There were people with incense and stuff."

"Ah." He nodded, as if this explained everything, or maybe as if he'd heard what she was thinking. "Well, I don't know if they'll just let me go or not. It would mess up their sacrifice, though, if I'm not as virgin as they think."

"So why are they sending _me_ in here? I'm supposed to get paid no matter _what_ , and let go at dawn. You could totally screw up their whole ritual!"

"I could," he agreed. "But my chastity is more important to me than that."

"You'd rather _die_ than... than have _sex_?" She looked down at the floor, between her knees. In a rather smaller voice than she'd intended, she said, "I'd rather be alive."

He touched her shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with that. We all make our choices."

Rally's eyes burned. She wiped at them, and her hands came away wet. "I'm supposed to try my best, to get you to, you know."

"All right."

She blinked several times, with the tears blurring her sight. "All _right_?"

"Yes. You're not supposed to actually rape me, I assume? Just attempt to seduce?"

"Er."

He put both his hands back on the bed. "I'll just sit right here."

Rally stared at him. He sat there, smiling a little, but it wasn't like Mister Smith's smile. She was still nervous, and unhappy, and afraid. But not... of him.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Names have power. I don't know if they've got a microphone in here or not, but names have power."

"Oh. Yeah." She looked at her hands. "You really don't mind?"

"I don't mind."

"Right. Um." Rally looked up and tried to think of what to do or say. There should have been some resistance in the air, but she could just raise her hand and touch his shoulder, and it was just a shoulder, with the fabric of his shirt like the fabric of any other white T-shirt. It could have been her brother's. It could have been hers. She moved her palm until his hair brushed her fingers. Clean, silky-soft, dark and straight. "You've got nice hair."

"Thank you. Yours is nice, too. I like the three-braid arrangement."

Rally lifted her other hand to her own hair, with the bangs fuzzing out over her forehead, and then the three braids flat against her skull till they got tied off at the base of her skull and poufed out in back. "Mom worked really hard on them. Thanks."

"When they let you go, don't let them find your family, I'd say."

"No... But, if they sacrifice you, what about _me_?"

"They might let you go. Especially if they promised. After all, you're a fifteen year old kid, and this is all too weird."

"Yeah." She pressed her lips together. "You really, really don't mind?"

"Really, really."

"So, I could, um, sit on your lap?"

"Sure."

She slid over, swung her legs around, and did. Her knees were on the cot. "Not too heavy?"

"No." He looked up at her, and it was strange. Like he saw a friend. Not a girl-friend, and not a sister. Just a friend. Just...

Just no... chemistry, she decided. She stifled another _**really** okay?_ and leaned down to put her lips on his.

Soft. Warm. Dry. Rally pulled back a little, to see that he'd closed his eyes. She tried again, even opening her mouth a little. It was like kissing a benign living doll. Not _bad_. He really _didn't_ mind her trying. Just _no_ chemistry.

"Think about the person you like," Rally said, and then kissed him again.

Just for an instant, he kissed back, and it was like lightning in her belly. _So that's what it's supposed to be like,_ she thought, knowing that even with all the horrible mess around, that if that'd been meant for _her_ , she'd have wanted to do it again and again and pull off all their clothes.

"Sneaky," he said when she pulled back, her eyes wide.

"Thanks," she whispered.

He looked a little embarrassed. "Effective, apparently."

"Sorta?"

"A point. I'm not going to toss you down on the bed."

"How long... should I try to, um..." Rally put her head on his shoulder. "They're watching in the security room!"

"Ah. That's a nuisance. Here..." He brought his arms around her, and twisted them both so that she was on the cot, between him and the wall. "It's just till midnight, right? You try to get some rest, and I'll act like they should leave us alone to see what happens."

"Um, okay."

He kissed her forehead, and stroked her back. Up and down, and under the shirt (over the bra strap), and... she felt more like a kid, somehow. Like she was neuter as a tadpole, and all it was... was him trying to help her feel better.

Which wasn't how it would have been, if she'd been a sorceress herself, like her mother and sister. She'd have been able to rescue him, and tell _him_ it'd be okay.

But she wasn't. She was just like any other human, nearly. Only different in knowing that there was real stuff people could do with a little bit of hair and a lot of willpower. Knowing there were people who could wrap up the incense smoke into threads that went whispering out into the world to find someone and settle 'round his neck. Knowing that 'round midnight, they'd likely find that she'd snuck out, and there'd be wings in the night looking for her.

That helped her feel better, too, as much as the stroking. Sometimes the chain on his wrist brushed against her, cold, and she jumped the first few times.

And somehow, despite feeling scared and weird, all the exhaustion landed on her like sacks of autumn leaves.

*

"They're coming," a voice said in Rally's ear. "Time to wake up."

"Mmmph?" Unfamiliar words, unfamiliar face... But she rubbed the muzziness out of her eyes and shook it out of her brain. "You sure you don't want to, um..."

"No time now, anyway. But I'm still sure. It'll be all right." He smiled, and held her close a moment, like a brother.

Then the door opened. It was the Mexican-looking guard, and Mister Smith. Mister Smith frowned in mild disapproval at Rally. "Really, my dear, I didn't pay you all that money to take a nap."

"She tempted me as much as she could," the captive said, before the charming tones could do more than make Rally's eyes water. "She tempted me more than I thought she would. But I remain chaste. Now let her go and finish this wretched business, and may God have mercy on your soul."

"Ray, collect our guest. And you, my dear..." Mister Smith offered his arm.

The Mexican-looking guard moved, warily, to unlock the prisoner's chain from the bed. The young man (Romani?) didn't struggle. He just stood up, helping Rally, and adding, "Don't forget the bag."

She picked it up and went to stand next to Mister Smith, though she didn't take his arm, and after a moment he gracefully shrugged and just straightened his suit-jacket.

"Now," Mister Smith said, "let us all go downstairs. My dear, I thank you for your aid, but I fear that I will need all the staff to be present, and there will be no one left to make sure you're properly safe. If you would therefore come with us?"

Rally looked out the door, and saw John, the snappish man, there. "I don't have much choice, do I?"

"I do prefer to handle these things with dignity, my dear. All right, this way."

Muzzy sleep was chased away by tired adrenalin as they went down the stairs again, into the stifling heat. And then... into the furnace room itself, the heat turning dryer, with the designs marked upon the ground and the incense trying to curl into her lungs. It almost covered up the smell of blood, from sacrificed snakes and birds at the six points of the circle.

The center of the circle had a heavy, metal table, with chains dangling from each corner and a pair at the middle of the long edges. There were spotlights on it, tinted red, so it looked like a movie prop, gleaming and shining. There was a long basin beneath it, full of glowing coals. When Rally looked around, she saw curtains, maybe a dozen people in robes, and a smaller, more recent-looking (and rushed-looking) spell-circle near one of the walls.

Mister Smith walked to that circle, one hand on Rally's shoulder. "Please stand here, my dear. Whatever happens, don't move, or I can't guarantee your safety."

As he walked away, she thought, _You didn't close the circle, or power it at all. You can't guarantee my safety no matter whether I move or not._ But she remembered the story her grandfather'd read to her, of the last unicorn. _You must never run from something immortal. It attracts their attention._

Sometimes that was true, he'd said. Sometimes... not. Sometimes, frankly, it didn't matter which, because you were in trouble both ways.

Rally squatted down in the circle and wished she could turn it into a real protection herself.

Mister Smith took the prisoner's chain from Ray-the-guard, and led the young man toward the table.

Clearly, the captive said, "You will note that I am not struggling, but walking of my own will, worker of old magics."

"That's an old story, and not relevant here," Mister Smith replied. "You will not cow me with petty fiction."

"I see."

And still, the young man lay down on the table, and let Smith and Ray shackle his wrists and ankles, and draw the chain up to go over his stomach and press him against the table.

Rally bit her finger. She didn't want this to be happening. All she'd be able to do, even if they did let her go, would be revenge. She'd rather have saved him. She'd rather have been the heroine, who dashed out and grabbed a knife and fought off all the dark acolytes to save the sacrificial victim.

But she wasn't. And she wanted to live, and it seemed like all she'd have to do was bide her time and let someone be killed. And he hadn't once asked her to try to save him.

Mister Smith took off his coat, and tie, and shirt, and Ray-the-guard put a golden robe (orangey in the red lighting) over his shoulders. Another robed acolyte, maybe this one a woman, came forward and painted designs on Smith's bare chest, in oil, and then Ray-the-guard -- now also robed -- shook incense at his head, heart, and groin.

The maybe-woman gave Smith a knife, and then they both went and left him by the table, with the prisoner.

The chanting was in Spanish, she thought. Not Latin or Greek or Hebrew, like her family usually used. She couldn't understand it, more than a word here and there, and even then, she wasn't sure.

Mister Smith took oil from a small bowl the maybe-woman had left, and painted designs on the prisoner's forehead, still chanting. He carefully cut open the white T-shirt, and painted the captive's chest with oiled designs. The young man was thinner, with ribs showing, making him seem so small and half-starved compared to Smith's own muscles.

Rally wiped at her eyes again. If she couldn't save him, at least she could remember him. Tell people, someday, that he'd been brave and calm.

She'd have expected the chanting to stop, before anything really happened, but it didn't. One moment, just chanting, gesturing in the air and incense smoke above the captive, and the next... a slash down the young man's arm. (He drew in his breath, but didn't scream, didn't yell. Didn't do more than tense.)

Chanting, chanting. Blood somehow dripped from the table, and into the basin below, with the coals. They hissed, and smoke came up to curl around the table like something alive.

Smith slashed again, at the prisoner's other arm. More blood, more chanting, more smoke to curl up like a malevolent spirit.

For all Rally knew, it was.

The acolytes continued to chant, but it was almost a relief when Smith held up the dagger and shouted something. It gleamed and glittered, reflecting the red light in eye-stabbing flashes. Shouting again, he lowered it, and sliced along the prisoner's body, from collarbone to the base of the ribs.

This time, the young man gasped, and choked back a tiny, croaking cry. Rally found herself making little whining noises, and stopped, biting her hand, at the base of her thumb, instead.

Smith put the knife down and slipped his hands into the incision, slowly pulling the sacrifice's ribs apart, and Rally couldn't stop the whining noises even when she bit her hand so hard she thought that she was bleeding. He was still alive, he could feel it. His eyes were wide, and his mouth moved in words or whispers.

With a final wrench, and cracking noises, Smith had the ribs open like cabinet doors. He reached in, and slipped his fingers around something, and then pulled.

_Ohgodsnohis **heart**._ Rally's mind screamed and she didn't know if her body did as well, as Smith bent his head down and sank his teeth into the heart of the sacrifice, even while the sacrifice still fought for breath, and his lips still moved in more than just shudders. And the smoke curled around them.

Did more than curl around them. Wrapped around the dark sorcerer and his victim and then began forcing itself into the young man's body. The light died from his eyes, and the smoke dissolved them into pits. Smith pulled back, his mouth and chin dripping with blood, and cried out more words, lifting up bloody hands. The smoke seemed to push itself into the sacrifice's body, expanding it under the skin, and the shackles and chains on it burst.

It was a thing of smoke and blood, with dark obsidian pits for eyes, that stood up, and up, twice as tall as Smith. A male thing, ripping through the clothing in its size so that the tatters concealed nothing. It looked around the room, to where most of the acolytes were stunned into silence, or stuttering, discordant chanting. It looked at Rally.

It took a step toward her.

She flinched, _didn't_ step out of the circle (for all the good that probably wasn't), and fed the tiny sparks of indignation in her chest. "You said I'd get to go at dawn! You promised!"

Smith looked at her, and in a voice entirely at odds with the blood on his hands and face, said, "My dear, are you a virgin, too?"

"He was my first kiss!" Her voice broke. "You promised I'd live!"

Smith spoke in the maybe-Spanish language. The creature of smoke and murder laughed, said something back, and took another step toward Rally.

Smith called, "You shall live, my dear. And may leave at dawn. If you still wish to, of course. You may find the honor compelling. Even, mm, pleasant."

Running seemed as plausible an escape as trying to strengthen the spell circle. Or maybe less plausible. She knew that under stress...

She bent down and hissed words of her own, trying to push her energies into the chalked diagrams on the floor in front of her. She could tell it wasn't going to work, but it was better than looking at the horrible naked _thing_ coming towards her and wondering if Smith was lying through his teeth or if it would be _only_ brutal rape.

Another voice, clear and ringing, said, "Excuse me, but that's my vessel you're wearing. Get the hell out of it."

She looked up, to the ceiling above the evil spirit's head. It was already turned to look as well.

A young man, hands and face paler in the shadows below where the lights were pointed, crouched in midair. And yet his voice... his voice seemed familiar.

Then he unfurled black wings and dropped, a giant, shining sword in his hands.

The spirit flung itself to one side, and for a moment (etched into her mind), Rally saw the giant blade embedded a third of its length into the concrete ground, saw the angel's profile as he snarled at the spirit. And as his wings came down and he pulled the sword out of the ground, she remembered when her oldest cousin had been brought back to them by the Angel of Death, and how Lady Una'd kissed him in reward, with all the little children watching in awe.

The angel darted through the air at the spirit, the sword flashing in arcs. "Very..." (a slash, and though the spirit was only nicked, one of the scrambling acolytes fell, headless) "...annoying," he said. "You shouldn't be..." (another slash, and Ray-the-guard fell to his knees, with blood and things spilling out his front) "...this fast."

The spirit boomed taunting retorts. The surviving acolytes screamed, and tried to flee.

And somehow, many of those acolytes never made it to the door, while Rally stood in the center of the useless circle and watched. The evil creature would dodge, and the angel would chase, but acolytes lost heads, arms, legs. And Rally felt horrible about the charnal house of the basement -- but they'd stood by while someone died.

So had she, but not because she'd wanted to.

Would the angel be mad?

Maybe he'd give her back to Lady Una.

Maybe he'd keep her, in exchange for her oldest cousin.

She stood there, and waited, because the acolytes were running and screaming, and definitely attracting immortal attention.

She stood, and watched, and listened.

The angel said, "Yes, that's my vessel. No, I'm _not_ letting you get away by dissolving it. Get out on your own, filth."

And then, between one booming retort from the monster and the next syllable, the angel was face to face with it, and his sword was entirely through its heart. She could see the heart, a thin, stretched ring around the blade, with the smoke thinning out. The monster reached for the angel, but he twisted the blade to one side, and pulled it around, and then he was hovering in midair with slow wingbeats, amid a pattering rain of gore as the smoke faded all away -- silently, with only rounded curls to suggest the monster's screams.

"Scratch another one of Beleth's old pets for a while," the angel muttered. He looked up, and just as Rally was thinking his eyes looked, yes, like the Romani boy's -- his expression went irritated and alarmed.

And Rally felt a hand on her shoulder, and smelled blood.

"Don't move, death," Smith said. "Not if this child is an innocent."

Rally looked to the side, and saw where the knife was, held to the right of her throat. She uncurled her fingers from around her left elbow, and moved her hand, slowly, across her chest. She looked down.

The angel said, slowly, "She is..."

And Rally slammed her bootheel down on Smith's foot, shoving off and away from that horrible bone-cutting knife. The room went in slow motion, only visuals, sensation a thin, faraway thing.

Pulled off-balance. Falling. Trying to twist to hit on her side and kick out if Smith were there. A spray of red across her vision. The way her head hit the concrete floor and stunned her. The cracks from where the angel's sword had gone into the ground.

Then her back _hurt_ , she couldn't breathe, and the angel was saying, "Hold still, I have it."

So she held still, and after a moment, her lungs worked. She coughed, gagging at blood and incense, but still sucking in great gasps of air, sobbing them out between coughs. The angel wrapped his arms around her, and held her like a brother until she could stop crying.

When she could listen, he said, "I don't know where you live, but... does your family still use that graveyard?"

Rally nodded.

"Shall I take you there?"

She nodded again, after a second.

The angel -- his wings not showing now -- stood up, and helped her back up as well. She realized that her shirt was loose, and her bra as well, and patted at her clothing.

"I'm sorry," the angel said, bending to pick up something. "I was focusing more on you than your clothing."

"C-can you fix it? Because... because if it's all torn... mom's gonna kill me."

Somehow, the angel pieced together the logic of that. He nodded, handed her the plastic bag (somehow only a little drippy and sticky) and wrapped his arms around her in a comforting hug. Blackness came around them -- his wings, she realized -- and then they were in the graveyard, with clean air and normal warm night around them, and her clothes were back together.

Something flew out of the trees, away from them, twittering. Rally laughed, weak and nervous. "Oh, we triggered the guards."

"Using little spirits?" The angel looked pained.

"The harmless ones, who've gotten through on their own, and promise to behave..." She stopped herself from babbling. "Just a few. Is it bad?"

Somberly, he said, "I don't know. I will have to pray for guidance."

Rally swallowed. Her mouth tasted nasty, her clothes smelled like blood and incense, even more than the fresh night air could waft away. She wanted a bath. She wanted to brush her teeth. "Will you... stay? Till my family gets here, at least?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"Thanks." She sat down on the ground, and after a heartbeat, he did as well. She asked, "If you're the Angel of Death, why did you save me?"

"I'm not the Angel of Death," he answered, simply.

"But, my cousin..."

"I'm an Archangel," he explained. "When someone gets to Heaven, there are... options. He was -- and is, I presume -- an honorable man. A hero."

Rally sighed. "I'm just a kid."

"You've got potential. You just haven't grown into it yet."

She blinked and stared at him. Aside from being a little different in face and skin, he looked the same as when he'd been pretending to be a captive. "Huh?"

"Archangels can usually tell. Not everyone grows into their potential. There are ways to accelerate the process. Be patient a while longer, and try your best, before you look for short-cuts. All right?"

"Yeah." And it really was all right, somehow. Her heart felt lighter. "Thanks."

"And thank you, for being so brave. I couldn't have killed that thing easily without drawing it out. I'm sorry you had to be there."

"It's... well, okay, it's not all right. But I'll live. And it won't break me. So maybe someday I'll be better, and I can _save_ people when horrible stuff happens, instead of just standing there."

"Generations of heroes." The angel shook his head in wonder. "Humans are the most wondrous of God's children."

Rally giggled. "This is so weird."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't think you get to be 'normal.'"

"I'll live."

She put her head down on his shoulder, and they waited until her parents came calling her name. Then she stood up and ran to them, and imagined -- for when she looked back, the angel was gone -- that she'd heard faintly chiming bells behind her.


	67. Novices

* * *

* * *

He is a little scrap of fluff and gossamer, held together by his Archangel's love and an ancient, evil name.

"Once," his Archangel tells him, "there was a Cherub, as loyal and true as any of his Choir. He helped a Word-bound help other angels, providing clarity when there was confusion, and investigating when there was a mystery, so that the Word-bound could better help someone who was too confused to ask.

"One day, the Cherub's Word-bound asked the Cherub to speak with an Archangel who seemed to be saying strange things, confusing things, to other angels. So the Cherub did."

"What did he say to me?" Asmodeus asks.

"I don't know." His Archangel blinks back tears, and holds him with gentle tightness. "But Dominic, who was Angel of Judgment then, was convinced to wait -- until Lucifer killed the Metatron, the Voice of God, and led a third of the angels against the others, trying to make God yield by force and fear, instead of reason or love."

"Why didn't God _stop_ it?" He is tiny, and does not think very fast, but every fiber of his being is outraged. It's not fair!

"I don't know." The tears spill out anyway, and the black wings wrap around them both as if to keep Asmodeus safe, even from Heaven and God. "There are still angels and humans who postulate reasons, but... we don't know. He has not said. Maybe some greater evil would have happened, had He stopped the Fall from happening. Some Elohim say that He loved all His children too much to steal their free will, and make them nothing but empty-souled toys -- even when they used that free will to battle and kill."

"It's... not fair. To make something, someone, who wants to get itself hurt."

His Archangel presses his face against Asmodeus' side, and the tears make his fur wet. "Please, even if you are still angry with God -- can you find other reasons to stay with Heaven, and angels? And not hurt _yourself_ to make God sorry?"

Asmodeus twists to try to wrap his paws around the bigger Archangel. He's so tiny. He can only reach an ear and nose at the same time, and it's frustrating. "You love me." He knows that. He's known it since he opened his eyes to a Heaven that's old and familiar -- and that he can't remember seeing before. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Thank you," his Archangel whispers into the fur on his stomach. "I don't want you to be hurt either."

"You can't stop it." That's the old knowing, that told him he could never turn his back on his old name to be just another Cherub. No matter how much he wanted. "Life hurts."

"I wish it didn't. I wish I could keep you safe forever."

"You can't."

His Archangel sighs. "No. I can't. Any other new-made angel, yes. But you were hurt so badly in the Fall that the wounds are still there, and I do not know how to mend them. I can only try to give you weapons so that you can defend yourself, and keep yourself safe."

"My Heart helps." He licks the nearby eyebrow, and hates how little he is even as he likes how he can be held so close and hidden so completely. He doesn't say how he worries about his Heart. It's so small, like him. It's tiny, and vulnerable, radiating out love and happiness -- the joy that his Archangel has in his life and redemption, Asmodeus supposes. It's a beacon that tells him someone cares, and there are times when he's desperately afraid that it will roll out of its shallow basin and shatter.

His Archangel told him, gently, reassuringly, that it wouldn't. He set pillows all around, though, and Asmodeus isn't sure if that was just to humor him, or because his Heart really is that fragile. Like him.

Sometimes he wants to cry and cry, and he doesn't know why. Sometimes he wants to scratch and bite anyone who comes near. Once he sunk his teeth into his Archangel's sleeve and sobbed in rage -- but all he got was gentleness. Reassurance. Answering tears that reflect him as something deserving an Archangel's helpless grief.

That feels reassuring, but he's not sure it's for all the right reasons, which scares him all over again sometimes.

He hates being tiny.

Even if it means that his Archangel can carry him, hidden and safe, as he goes to Council and supervises other Servitors. Even though it makes him feel cared for, and happy. Even when he's nestled down with his Heart, amid pillows and under a blanket, lost in how much love his Heart is reflecting.

Asmodeus still hates being tiny.

"How do I get bigger?" he asks, when no one is in his Archangel's office. His Heart is between his paws, against his chest, where he can feel that it's smooth and working properly.

His Archangel slips out of his chair to sit down next to him. (Asmodeus knows he could crawl into that lap, even bringing his Heart with him, but that's too much love for his tiny little Forces to keep thinking -- so he doesn't.) "There are two ways. I could give you more Forces, or you could grow them yourself, by trying to exceed your own limits. Mm, two and a half ways, maybe. I could give you more Forces as a reward for doing your best at something. I'm not sure that would be entirely fair for you."

Sometimes, and now is one of them, Asmodeus sees himself reflected in his Archangel's eyes, and that reflection is like the strange mirrors in the Halls of Progress, expanded and powerful. "Because... I was so big once. So either I should get it myself, entirely, or you should gift it yourself, entirely. Right?"

His Archangel nods, smiles, and it seems the reflected image grows a little more vivid. "Exactly how I feel, yes."

Asmodeus kneads the pillows beneath his claws. "Unless it were the reward. For the victory condition."

"If we laid out the matter like that, then yes, I think that would not feel wrong to me. But I think you would be upset with a hidden victory condition."

He kneads the pillow more. The thought makes part of him unhappy, and part of him perplexed that there could be any other sort of victory. He puts his chin down on his Heart and that helps him feel better. "Maybe if you said there was a hidden victory condition, it would be all right. Part of it would be _finding_ it."

"That's true." His Archangel tilts his head. "Would you like to play a game of chess?"

It's the first time Asmodeus remembers the offer being made, and yet it echoes familiar inside him. His tail twitches back and forth, and his ears prick up. His wings fan upward, too. "Yes. Yes, I would."

He loses, and it's intensely frustrating. He's so little, with such a little mind. Such little paws, that can barely move the pieces without knocking over five more. "Again," he demands.

His Archangel blinks, chuckles, and complies. More losses, but some are closer-fought battles.

Finally, chewing on his own tipped king-piece, Asmodeus considers the matter. He _used_ to be better at this. Much better. The outrage that his Archangel can beat him... Maybe he used to play so well that his Archangel was the one who lost, when he was big.

_I could ask to be big again._ Maybe not as big as he used to be, not without the Seraphim Council agreeing, but... big enough to remember chess, at least. The other games. The way they made sense on the board, and sense off the board, and how the pieces should stand for so many other things than just little Essence-constructs to be pushed around.

He could have it all back, and not have to re-learn the rules, the tricks, the game.

His little teeth finally crunch through a weak spot, and he spits out the king's cross-piece, staring at it in horror where it's fallen beside the board. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I didn't mean to break it."

His Archangel takes the rest of the piece, and the broken fragment, and fits them back together. "It's all right. This one really is just Essence. It doesn't have a life at all, so it's easily mended." He hands the repaired king back to Asmodeus.

He takes the king in his paws again and licks it, still thinking hard. Finally, he says, "Could I have a book on chess?"

Relearning will be frustrating and he will hate it -- but somewhere, he must have learned the game wrong, and taking back the old way would just bury the error amid everything else he knew of it.

Better to learn fresh, and this time, get it right.


	68. Not Quite Interesting Times - Fluff

* * *

* * *

In Council:  
TeenyAzzie, whispering to Laurence, "Who's that, and why doesn't he have feathers?"

Laurence whispers back, "That's Nybbas, who used to be Prince of the Media. He has issues. But people love him anyway."

TeenyAzzy looks thoughtful. "Do I have to?"

Laurence keeps a straight face by virtue of Distinction-powers. "No. But he really does care about his Servitors. It would be wrong not to respect that, at least."

TeenyAzzie asks, "Did I ever like him?"

Laurence whispers, "I doubt it."


	69. King's Pawn Forward One

* * *

* * *

He has Servitors.

They're waiting for him.

It was a shock, to find one of them. He'd gone out, fluttering carefully and -- though wary -- ignored as much as most relievers, despite his Choir and few Forces. He'd watched. And eventually found himself watched right back, by garnet eyes a few shades darker than his own.

Found himself talking, with an Elohite who... didn't want to be something else, anything else, but a redeemed Game-angel. Even with how much redeeming hurt.

Asmodeus is sure that he didn't understand everything that the Elohite said. He's sure that he missed things. Concepts. Ideas. He gnaws at the properly-gray glove that the Elohite gave him, and tries to think.

It's important, somehow. That there are those who think... it was worth it.

He knows he hurt them, hurt them all horribly, and yet -- this one needed the Word as much as Asmodeus thinks he might, if he could only remember it. (Would it make him whole, to have it again? Is he not whole without it? He's so small, it's hard to think.)

And when his Archangel examined the glove, heard the Elohite's name, he said, "Ah. One of the shadow-Game, spread throughout Heaven. Not a bad Power to talk to, I think."

What will they do, those who once served his former Word? What will they do without it? What will he do without it?

It was hard enough, to let his heart be big enough for the black-winged Archangel who redeemed him. How can all these other angels (and angels-yet-to-be?) fit inside as well? Something inside him demands that he try. Something else hisses that it would be better to push them away, worry only about his own tiny, fragile self.

But how will he grow big, how will he grow to fit the reflection in his Archangel's eyes, if he doesn't try to fit other people in his heart?

He worries at the thoughts, and worries at the glove, and studies the chess books he has, and one day he looks at the pillows around his Heart and wonders if, just perhaps, they've gotten a little smaller.

And his Archangel sits down on the floor next to him, touches his ear lightly, and asks, "Would you like to be 'mentored'? Enough of my Servitors do it -- new fledges and redeemed both -- that it shouldn't be hard to conceal you. Especially..."

Asmodeus looks up, and waits, patiently. It feels a bit easier to be patient, now, despite urgencies and storms of emotion that nibble at him without memories to give them true fangs.

"There is... well, my Game-dagger. I hold her in trust. I could tell her that you were a highly-placed Djinn, in the Game, and that you are still considering whether you want your name known." His Archangel strokes one of Asmodeus' ears again. "Would that be appropriate?"

Asmodeus closes his eyes, and feels his Heart smooth against his chest and forelegs, singing of being loved. And also of steadfast duty, of rules, firm and stable.

A part of him is irritated to think of that, and another part is vastly relieved that there is something to hold him together when he feels unsure and lost.

"I'd like to meet her. It sounds..." He thinks hard, but that's a little easier, now. "It sounds good. The plan. It sounds good."

His Archangel smiles and holds out a hand. And knowing that he can grow, that he's _not_ stuck being tiny, makes Asmodeus feel even happier to crawl up his Archangel's sleeve and cling to his shoulder.


	70. Bring the Popcorn

* * *

* * *

"Lord Laurence!"

"Lord Commander!"

"Sirsirsirsirsir!"

"Laurence!"

"No, you say _Archangel_ Laurence! Or sir!"

" _Sir_ sirsirsirsir!"

Laurence turned around, pondering whether it was an advantage to listen to reliever babble as individual notes in their chattering song -- or just glean the sense of it as non-Superiors tended to do. "Yes, children?"

Several of them hovered politely, and he recognized them from the class he was teaching. The less-promising ones, mostly, but they had enthusiasm and joy in the learning. Others zipped over to cling to his sleeves and shoulders, with one tiny speck claiming the coveted reliever-perch of the top of his head.

Laurence gave up and listened to the whole instead of the individual notes.

"You want me to watch something?" Suspicious, he used Mercurian resonance on the more clingy relievers. _Ah. Media-children._ Flash and glitz, and he wasn't sure that he approved of how _much_ the Media imported... But it did seem to have its uses, and once he got hold of the actual data? Media tweaked and twitched things around, yes -- but like so much else, it seemed that humanity had the hilt, and all celestials could do was try judo to direct the flow.

It also helped that Nybbas couldn't shut off the Christmas muzak from his personal Soundtrack, in December. He'd been able to get _several_ concessions from the so-called "Angel Prince," just to get _new_ material on human televisions and radios.

"All right, all right," he told the relievers. "What is it you want me to watch, and how long will it take? I can spare a few hours."

One of the Media-relievers reached into a pocket and pulled out a much-bigger-than-the-pocket container, a relic DVD. The cover was in the anime style, with a large-eyed, pink-haired young woman on it.

"Well," Laurence admitted, "I do suppose that I can watch someone with a sword in her hand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(Revolutionary Girl Utena, episodes thereof.)_


	71. Last Joke

* * *

* * *

"Are you willing to face judgment, Kobal?"

Kobal looked up. They'd taken Haagenti away... a long time ago, with worried Flowers Cherubim and a stern Flowers Seraph. No word since, of course. And now there were guards -- six robed Judge-types, and a narrow-eyed Swordie with her blade already drawn.

Kobal sighed, stood up, and brushed off his pants. They'd gotten dusty, with him just sitting there. Couldn't have that. "Sure, might as well. The in-flight movie sucks."

One of the robed Judges mouthed something, and another shook his head fractionally, frowning. The first subsided. The Swordie gestured, and he walked that way as they fell in around him in formation.

Their footsteps echoed through the corridors, more than they should have. The Tether of Notre Dame screamed and howled around them. Maybe God was laughing at them.

Everyone thought that God'd told Kobal a secret.

He had. He really had.

And then He'd made Kobal forget.

See? That was funny.

The Swordie relaxed, just a little, as they moved into a hallway with vaulted ceilings. They must be getting closer to the trial room.

There was one more funny thing left. Haagenti'd been getting Essence back, when Kobal hadn't. Of course he'd shared some, before he sunk into unconsciousness. It'd hardly even needed a little touch of Impudite resonance.

And now he used a little, and his wings unfolded out of his fading vessel.

The others shouted around him, and for a moment -- just a moment -- he was whole and magnificent in his Shal-Mari finery and his best dead happy-face tie, with his wings outstretched.

Then the Light hit, and the leather in his wings shredded with it, the clothes ashing even faster, and his skin searing. Smelled like one of Haagenti's BBQs. But he had Essence, and he used it. Not crying out. No.

Not when the Forces shed off him (so few, so few now that he was no Prince). Not when he knew that all the Corporeal ones were gone, and there was nowhere left for him but up or dead.

Tears flowing down his cheeks, and wasn't that a stupid thing to think of now, when everything hurt so much?

And then, with the Light blinding him...

_Oh. Yeah. Right._

He whispered, "I remember."

He started to laugh, but there was nothing more


	72. Prismatic Search

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This one is Beth-haran the Elder, yes.)
> 
> * * *

* * *

"How do you live?" the Balseraph whispers.

Beth-haran tilts her head to the side, fractionally. She's not thinking about _how_ she lives, Game-gray and red replaced by Sword-blacks and silver. She is in full dress uniform for this duty, but with her old notebook and its staring crimson eye from the pawn-piece on the cover. Instead, she is thinking of the words that might explain it.

"There are rules. There are moves. The pieces have edges, but... my Lord is still a Player." It comes to her, a way to answer the Need she reads in the demon's eyes. "He has promised he will give me back, someday. When the new Game starts."

"To the _Prince_?" the Balseraph breathes, eyes wide.

"To the Game."

*****

"You disgusting little toady," the Habbalite sneers. "Are you in his bed, too? Or just his clothes?"

Beth-haran considers the various options, the probable personality, the likely motives, and dispassionately backhands the Habbalite across the face. Her corporeal strength is enough to throw the faux angel back onto her cot.

There is no fight left in the former Asmodean. Nothing but wracking sobs as she hides her face and eyes from Beth-haran's Lilim gaze.

"You would not tolerate such words against your Lord," Beth-haran breathes.

"You are a traitor! You have betrayed him! Even if I believe that I am no angel, I will not betray the Prince and I will not betray the Game."

"It does not betray the Word to wait for it where one may be in position, instead of in the box, waiting to be placed."

"Leave me alone, traitor."

*****

"Does it hurt?"

The form on the bed is a child's. The soul within is a Daughter, though Beth-haran does not know if this one would deny the relationship as much as she would like to do. "Redemption hurts, yes. You must let the Symphony... move you. And it hurts, because it shows you every misPlay, and why it was wrong, even if you didn't realize it till then. And you have to trust the one who holds you."

"Does it have to be the Sword?"

"No. The Word... helps me wait, though." She would be so empty, so lost, without the structure to tell her where her boundaries are. Where her will is her own, and where she moves to another's command. She is not whole without a master to hold her in his hand like a dagger, and guide her deadly edge.

"I just... I just want to be able to trust. To feel like someone needs _me_ , and not... not an interchangeable part."

But her Lord Laurence _had_ taken her up. Is that not all the Need that is required? Out loud, Beth-haran says, "There are other Archangels. Would you like me to send word to Trade?"

A small hand creeps out of the huddled knot of limbs, flat against the rough-hewn wall. "Stone."

In her notebook, the embossed eye pressing against her fingers, Beth-haran makes a note.

*****

"I don't care."

A typical Djinn response. "You could. It improves play, in certain ways."

"Is there an Archangel of the Game, then?"

"Not yet."

He rolls over. "Get me when there is."

*****

A Calabite laughs and laughs. "What, you think I want anything _like_ that? I'm finally _free_ of him! I'd rather sit here in this cell and rot before I let anyone make a tool outta me."

*****

"All the fun ones are dead," an Impudite complains.

She keeps the bafflement off her face. "The point is not to have fun. The point is to serve, and to be ready."

"Yeah, whatever. I'll think about it. Unless you want out of those tight pants, sweetheart?"

She leaves without a word. Her pants are not that tight.

*****

Another Impudite tries to attack her, crying that the Prince will reward him for killing a traitor.

*****

A Djinn is silent, unmoving.

*****

Another Lilim laughs and sobs in turn. "I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to give it all up."

*****

Another Impudite curls up in the corner. "How do I face what I've done? The guards say you have to. But I don't feel guilty... I did what I had to do."

How can she explain?

*****

The smoke within the Force-Catcher roils. It is only her imagination that makes the crystal of it slick against her hands. "If I redeem, do I get an orgy welcome, cutie?"

*****

A Calabite paces back and forth in her cell, and explains, "It's very logical. Movement is the hallmark of the Choir. I am not getting out of this cell unless I can redeem. If I don't redeem, I won't be ready. You've _got_ to understand."

It's strange, how light her heart feels in her chest, all of a sudden. How easy it is for her to smile. "Yes. Yes, I do."


	73. Bell-Curves

* * *

* * *

"We're going _where_?"

"To an Elohite convention." Jada-dan smiled at her, from where he was driving the car, heading for the Tether.

Beth-haran said, "All right, that explains why you would be there, and why Salathiel's there -- but why me?"

"You're part of our presentation." And _that_ was a _smug_ Elohite.

"You're not going to tell me anything beyond that, are you," she stated.

He just smugged.

It was... interesting, to reflect that his delight in surprising her warmed her heart so much, now. Comfortable, in a strange sort of way. A game of letting each other win, partners and teams, with no way to lose -- except by not playing at all.

Band-limitations... no, _demon_ -limitations, restricting all the Games that could be Played, in Hell. Heresy to think, and yet -- she could think it, even as she knew how much her Forces were shaped to it, and would never feel quite right without it. Being an angel restricted her from certain moves, certain plays -- and opened up so many others that she'd never have dreamed of, and that it had taken long years as an angel _to_ dream of, or even begin to understand.

But Sword was close enough, for now. Sword, Judgment... new-shifted Trade, for Salathiel, which at least meant he could stay with them in joint missions, without working around Wind-dissonance. He did miss being able to make people double-take at the "Elohite" trio of Judgment, Sword, and _Wind_ , but the dealing and mental games of Trade seemed to help Salathiel.  
   
   
At the Tether, car parked and keys handed to Tetherstaff, they ascended, Jada-dan pulling off its Judgment harness that marked it "on-duty" and carrying the straps over its shoulder instead. Beth-haran lifted an eyebrow. "Vacation time?"

"Quite. Can we stop by my office? I need to pick up some notes, and drop this off." It jounced the harness with a finger.

"Of course."  
   
   
The Elohite convention was in the Library of Destiny, spilling over into classrooms that seemed both ancient and unused. One Ofanite fled, giggling, through stacks of books -- chased by a pair of Powers being carried by their own Wheels. What made Beth-haran double-take was that one of the Elohim had a golden noose, twirling in the air like a cowboy's lasso.

And yes, it was a relic.

Jada-dan frowned slightly as the chase turned a corner. "Wind and Creation," it sighed.

"But... was that...?"

Jada-dan's mood immediately lightened. "Mm, probably." It pointed. "Our auditorium is this way."

" _Is_ it." She blinked and followed. "What do we need an auditorium for?"

"The presentation."

"What _is_ the presentation about?"

Jada-dan pushed a door open. Inside, there was a small crowd, with the proportion of Elohim to other Choirs much less than it had been thus far. And there was something disturbingly not-quite-familiar in the room. Something that was reassuring and made her more wary and alert at the same time.

Her mind made the connection. Coloration of grays and reds, subtle but more concentrated than usual. The way so many of the angels held themselves, the clothing choices on those who wore such things...

Salathiel was sitting at a table in the front, talking to the gray-eyed Elohite who'd "ridden" by earlier, with the golden noose.

Beth-haran breathed out, in wonder, "You've gathered the shadowGame."

Jada-dan settled its notes under its arm and smiled. "That we have. Feel free to circulate. It shouldn't contaminate the data."  
   
   
First, Salathiel, and a cheerful kiss, a _poke_ in the ribs for not warning her about this, and introduction to the "cowboy," who had a low, rumbling voice for a Power, and went by "Chance." It said, "Redeemed to Creation, a few hundred years ago. I've been trying to duplicate nooses for the last fifty before Armageddon."

"Why?" she asked.

Chance looked rueful. "I was one of the ones... We got upset, with... With our Archangel. For running off. I was trying to make something, so we could catch him and find out what was going on. It hurt so much, without him."

Those gray eyes held the rest of the sentence. _And now we shall never have him again, and never know why he left us._ Instead, it said, "But at least he came back, when it really mattered. That helps a lot."

There's nothing she could say to that, so she touched the noose with a finger. Angel-make, but very similar, otherwise, to the relics that could capture a Renegade and drag it out of vessel. "This is outstanding work," she said.

"Thank you. It's taken a while, but... it was always an elegant design, don't you think? And the knives with Bound in them, and the like. I was always fascinated with them. It just took a while before I felt that it would be objectively all right for me to pursue those as creative endeavors."

"Because... you were Creation?"

"Because I was redeemed, and clinging to what I _was_ seemed illogical, even to me."

Her soul shadowed a trace, and her eyes or emotions must have shown it, for Chance added, "You'll notice that I'm holding a noose."

She touched it again, and felt the joy in creation woven through it, bittersweet with purpose. "True."  
   
   
Chance introduced her to others, starting with a pair of Ofanim of the Wind. She stared as the second Wheel coughed and mumbled its name. The first poked it with several rings, and said, "Yes, _that_ Trigarial."

Calabite Renegade, holding the Distinction of Knight of the Game, who had slain the vessels of six Gamesters sent after it, and over a dozen smaller spirits who'd been in its way when it fled. She'd actually lost a newly-assigned apprentice, who would have reported to her the next day, in that mess.

"I thought you'd be dead," she said, shocked into blandness.

The redeemed Calabite replied, "Yeah, well... I thought so too. Call me Trig? It's... faster."

"Why... why did you run?"

Trig barked a laugh. "Why does anyone run? I got framed, and I knew it'd be good enough, have just enough truth in it, to stick. But I didn't go into Trauma when K'vark intended, so I had enough time to break out."

"And... Wind..." She didn't say, _If it worked for you, why not my partner?_

"It fit the Choir. It was who I found first. One of those 'redeem or we play street hockey with you' situations."

" _You?_ " She knew that it couldn't have been fewer than a dozen Forces when it left, and that was assuming losses from escaping.

"Yeah, well..." Trig sounded a bit embarrassed. "I thought I'd just get more of my usual Discord. I didn't think I'd get a freakout about _angels_. Plus, er..."

The other Ofanite snickered. "Plus he'd just run into me and a half dozen of us headed for an Eighth Virtue, next city over. You know what Windy Virtues like, right?"

"Oh. High explosives."

The Windy said piously, "Anything we can blow up is not nailed down."

Trig added, "And it really did fit, in the Choir link. Besides, it was practical. I didn't _want_ to hang around anywhere for long, not with the Prince looking for me."  
   
   
There's the doberman Cherub, Paul, also serving the Sword. They eyed each other's outfits -- her humanoid uniform, his collar and jacket -- and Paul said, "Just so you know. I'm only here because the Elohim ambushed me and the Lord Commander said that it was worth the time to further their research. I serve because I _care_. Heaven holds my loyalty."

_But caring... and play... I play because I care. I care because I play. How can these be incompatible?_ All she said in turn was, "I see. Thank you for coming."  
   
   
A Mercurian of Judgment, wearing a relic gun at his hip, and a suit of black and Game-gray. His handshake was firm, perhaps over-compensating. "Call me Charles. I have to get back to my Role later, no sense digging up true-names."

"Beth-haran of the Sword... will find me well enough, up here. Thank you for coming."

"Quite welcome. Jada-dan said that the research topic was very fascinating. Not sure if I understand the fascination myself, but always glad to help a fellow Servitor."  
   
   
In one corner, smiling up wanly at Jada-dan, was a Bright Lilim with wings like dark lava wrapped over her shoulders. A tawny Seraph coiled around her, and as the Elohite moved on, his wings furled around her.  
   
   
A cluster of Elohim were chattering in a knot in another corner, most of them gesturing and emoting freely. As she walked over, curiously, they looked up, and over half of them had eyes of gray and ruby. One of the green-eyed ones made introductions, prefacing them with, "And this is the second-to-latest crop of redemptions to the Choir. We're initiating them into the Elohite 'conspiracy.'"

The blur of names, some passing familiar, others new, had no chance to settle as one small Power clasped her hand in both of its, and said, "Thank you. Thank you for showing that there would be a way to have both."  
   
   
A later arrival was another Bright, tiny and nearly vacent-eyed, with her wings charcoal gray around her. A Cherub of Judgment escorted her, lion-formed and black-maned. Beth-haran drifted over in time to hear her tell one of the organizing Elohim, "...I'm not bound to anyone yet. They said I could take my time. Wait. To see... what might fit."  
   
   
A shouting match erupted between two more Judges, Seraph and Kyriotate, and a trio of War-angels.

A Trade Mercurian shoved his way between them. "Aren't enough of us former fellows for _this_ nonsense to be avoided?"

The Seraph looked at the War-serving Choirmate over the Intercessionist's head. She sniffed. "I never liked him even when we were stuck together on the same missions!"

"I never liked you either," the other Seraph hissed.

The War-Mercurian said, "I know for a fact you two were sleeping together."

The Seraphim looked at her, then at each other. "So?"  
   
   
Another later arrival, Mercurian, stared at a Kyriotate. "Sasha?"

The Kyriotate stared back. "Fritz?"

They tackled each other in a hug, and Beth-haran wasn't sure which one was saying, "I thought you were a Lustie!" and which was saying, "I thought you were Media!"  
   
   
A very, _very_ small Kyriotate floated high up in a ceiling corner, and clutched a camera. It was wearing several pairs of sunglasses, like talismans.

"Hello," Beth-haran said cautiously to it.

It looked up with a half-dozen eyes. "Hi," it whispered.

"Are you here to make a record?" she asked, curious.

"Yeah," it whispered. Then, a moment later, "I was always spying. I'm good with cameras."

"Are you... Are you planning to stay with Media?"

Several hands and a dry octopus tentacle pat the camera. "I guess. He's familiar. The others are so scary. I know what a Prince'll want, even if he's an angel, too."  
   
   
An entire triad of Cherubim, wearing Judgment harnesses to show their duty, brought in a Force-Catcher, shrouded to keep the Light of Heaven from destroying the Shedite within. Immediately, it became the focus of most of the organizing Powers, and Elohite debate raged -- in calm and interested intensity -- as to whether a non-redeemed counted in the research.  
   
   
An Elohite with blazingly blue eyes had a long conversation with her regarding her attitudes toward the Game, Heaven, Hell, and her nature. She felt nearly drained by the end. It wrote a few final notes down. "I suppose that you're being logical enough about the bias," it said. "Maybe I should revisit the matter, if I can get over my distaste for even _thinking_ about that part of my life."

"You... aren't just one of the researchers?"

"I wasn't even one of the _subjects_ till last month. Nehemiah finally persuaded me that it was biased and obstructionist to refuse to answer email about all of this."  
   
   
Nehemiah had gray-green eyes and a Lightning jumpsuit. It also had a holographic chess set. "I've been interested in your case ever since I heard about you," it said. "Never managed to find the time to look you up, though. Lightning's very busy, these days. Vapulans left all _sorts_ of booby traps and Technology caches on Earth, not to mention the human-only issues."

The chess set attracted her eye. "I'm glad to meet you, too. Thank you for coming."

"Anytime. I hope that the presentation won't last more than a day or two -- we could have a game of chess?"

She smiled. "Yes, I'd like that."  
   
   
Beth-haran got dragged into a discussion -- by a Mercurian wrapped in ivy the way some Habbalah would wrap their vessels in jewelry -- about the best uses of knives and scalpels. Lierre, the Mercurian, was the one who held forth most about the proper uses.

"You're _Flowers_?" she finally managed to ask.

Its Malakite companion nodded, wryly, and Lierre said, "Well, if you have to get the information out quickly, but not actually _damaging_ someone..."

Another pair of Malakim, escorts to who-knew-who in the room, stared with faintly glazed and boggled eyes.  
   
   
A very large and peeved-looking Cherub of War pinned her to the wall briefly, and she buzzed her wings in irritation until it backed down, bearishly, and glowered.

"I'm not an Elohite. You have to talk," she said, her voice clipped and annoyed as she smoothed her uniform again.

" _You!_ " it growled. "It's blasted unfair! You know how hard I had to work to get back on duty? How long it took to get my head straight after you filled it up with stupid?"

She blinked, placing hints in the voice. "Ziddim? ...how did you get so big, so fast?" He'd been barely above an angelic fledge when she'd handed him off to another trainer for deep-cover work.

"No thanks to _you_ , you emotionless bitch!"

"That doesn't answer the question, Ziddim."

She was honestly surprised when his huge bear paw, slamming into the wall next to her head, didn't break anything. "Let me put it this way," he snarled into her face with hot, beary, unnecessary breath. "When you are accidentally attuned to the most holy man in the world, you do _not_ escape God's notice."

Beth-haran blinked more. "Er?"

Ziddim -- or whatever he was calling himself now -- settled back onto his haunches. "Divine Intervention. M'Lord laughed himself sick when he found me."  
   
   
She steered clear of a small group where a Fire-Wheel was saying, "Look, I'm here for this thing, but only because I gotta tell you lot that you are copulatingly insane to even want to _remember_ that crap. It's full of cruelty, it's full of lies, and it's full of crap. It's full of stuff I _punish_."

A Seraph in the group, all flame-colors itself, said, "Oh, you can't pretend that you aren't using your skills to hunt down escaping cruel."

The Wheel growled, "But I only hunt the ones who _deserve_ it!"  
   
   
At the very back of the room, in a nook behind a table and a bookshelf, her Archangel watched from shadows half of his own making. She stopped and stared, till he lifted a finger to his lips, miming _Shhh_. As she turned, she saw a small, furry head peering out from around his neck with intent ruby eyes.

She hoped she'd find out about that later, and went back to mingle.  
   
   
A Kyriotate and Mercurian were deep in discussion as she passed by.

"I just don't understand this theory that angels should _need_ a demonic Word," the Kyriotate said. "I'm redeemed from the Word and it was never a problem for _me_. Just part and parcel of a disgusting period in my life that I wish I'd never done."

The Mercurian explained, "It's not that we like remembering the horrible stuff, and personally, not like I'd _die_ without it -- I mean, hardly, since I was in Protection for so long! But I was such a... what's the modern terminology? Such a Heart. It was wrong to use people as things, I'm the first to understand that now -- but there's a certain satisfaction in doing your job elegantly, with flair."

"How is that _Game_ , though? How is it not, say, Trade?"

The white, fluffy wings went up in a shrug. "If you don't understand it, if the Word didn't leave its imprint on your Forces the way it did some people's... I guess it's not something I know how to explain. It's the flip of the cards, the roll of the dice, and the perfect move over the board. It's just a little different from the parry of a sword, or the imposition of a shield into the strike -- but part of me... part of me will always be the bishop who slides between the king and the threat."  
   
   
"Does anyone have statistic on Game yo-yos?" asked an Elohite with dried-blood-brown eyes, and an assortment of daggers on its War-marked belt. "Fallen-redeemed? I don't think we have any Down-Up-Down-Ups here."

"Got a Up-Down-Up over in the corner," mentioned another Elohite, yellow-eyed and apparently Destiny from the sigil on its PDA.

"Really?" the first said. "Hm!"  
   
   
Finally, Jada-dan found her and dragged her up to a seat near the front, so that they could present their findings on "The Bell-curve of Word-Need: a Study of Redeemed of the Game."

She opened her notebook, and drew the diagram that Jada-dan had in a huge holoprojection so the whole room could see. Then, up at the skinniest end of the curve, she drew a little short-hand glyph for her name, and for Salathiel's.

At the very tip above that, with a question mark, she drew the glyph for her Prince.


	74. Backstage

* * *

* * *

`K, gtg. -Jason`

_Good, another one._ Nybbas stretched his wings and spun off an instantiation to the Notre Dame cells, tossing off vague salutes to guards who stood to attention for his rank -- if not for him.

_Yeah, well, I'm the only one who can reach **these** people,_ he muttered in a private manifestation. _Got all the other Archangels for the ones who aren't too scared of losing themselves to even try._

"Shall we call to have the cell cleaned out now, sir?" asked one of the three guards patrolling the corridor.

"Sure hope so," he said. "Maybe unpack someone else from the cordwood."

"I'll get on the radio, sir."

He nodded, and put his hand to the door-handle.

Inside, his Impudite stood up, still in the geek-chic vessel that he'd been found in. "Okay... Okay, I'm ready."

And Seraph resonance, which he'd barely remembered to turn on ahead of time, objected.

Nybbas paused, his mouth half open, his hand half-extended. Then he used the motion to push his glasses up on his nose. "' _Scuse_ me, babe?"

"I'm ready, _sir!_ " Jason said, looking sheepish.

And the Symphonic strands of truth whispered...

"Like hell you are. Why are you wasting my time?"

"Er... Sir? I don't understand." Fear and uncertainty spread across that cute-nerd face.

"No..." He listened even more carefully. "No, you don't understand. And yeah, you _think_ you're ready, but... Kid, fruitflies in Sheol'd have a better chance than you. What's going on?"

"I... I don't understand, sir. I... I want to serve the Media, I want to get back to doing what I can do best! I can't do hardly _anything_ in this cell!"

True, true, true. "But you're _not_ ready to redeem, babe."

"But... I _am_ , sir! Really! I don't mind the feathers, and I can live without the horns, and okay, it'll be harder for me to walk home if there are dark alleys, but I bet I can run fast enough if there are muggers. I know I can remember not to hit humans. I'm _ready_ , sir!"

"Um." Belief said yes. Symphony was saying no. Soundtrack was feeding him the annoying stuff: _They Say I've Got Talent_ , and hellMedia calls.

First time he'd redeemed someone, and the second, and the third, he'd had Jean there to spot him, or Marc. Once, he'd begged them both, because even though it hurt like anything to think of failing one of _his_ people, the thought of losing his secretary, his elegant, lovely, cunning Judith... It had caught him unexpectedly in the chest, and made parts of him whisper, _Don't even try. You can work something out. Marc's been sheltering her this long, you can shelter her now..._

And she'd been marginal. _No, I don't understand -- but I think I want to. I don't think I need to change what I am -- but the angels do, and they won, and I can't **help** you the way I ought if I'm like this. Lord Marc says that it's not as much a change as I think, and more than I can imagine. I've had around two decades to try, sir. I don't think I'm going to figure it out better, and you need me. So._

This Impudite, though... Not even marginal. Nybbas sighed again. " _No_ , you're not. You're just acting th' part and not even _you_ see it." Nybbas was _Media_. Flimflam, razzle-dazzle, glitter and glitz, lights and mirrors, actors and directors... Natural as breathing. More natural.

"Then..." Jason's geeky, keyboard-fingered hands shook. "Then, sir... What else do I have to _do_ to get _out_ of this pit?"

Dammit. He hated it when he had to be traditional. He hated it when _Litheroy_ , of all annoyances, was the one with the better approach -- though mostly that was because the Seraph'd rub his nose in any little thing. ( _Jean, it will be dissonant if you redeemed him and insisted on his Word and elevation **just** as a petty attack on me._ The conversation hadn't gotten any better after that, though Jean hadn't been the one responding.)

But what he hated more was leaving anyone behind, or letting anyone die. Call that Impudite reflexes, but he'd change channels forever if that's what it took to keep them all alive. _He_ had the time. _He_ could give them the nuances that'd get the ones who'd never even try, otherwise. He didn't have to perform urgent triages, take up the ones who were willing and who trusted and hope it would be enough -- because if it wasn't, they were dead anyway, sooner or later when demonic hunters and the Game came calling. And as Jean said, there were no intellectual problems that weren't amenable to throwing Essence at 'em.

So he took the paces forward that the cell needed (it was plush, a huge holding cell, compared to some in this place). He took his Impudite's shoulders in his hands. "Kid. Listen to me and look at me."

"Don't I always, Boss?" Fear and confusion and helpless tears strangled down by Hell-forged willpower. Not the loyalty and love of his Cherub, Naioth, who redeemed the traditional way and came back only when life'd hurt her too much for anything else. But Soundtrack whispered, _You are my home_ , and this close, the undercurrents of emotion could be translated into words: _You're all I know._

"You're looking at the finished show. I need you to look at the set. And at the cutting room floor."

"But... but sir, you've said... we're still ourselves..."

"Yeah. But it's not _just_ putting up with a new dissonance condition, like you swapped Princes or something."

"But sir..."

He could see it, he could hear it. The _you haven't changed._ He closed his eyes and dropped his head a little. "Those are the little things. The surface things. The annoying things. Kid... I was always a little marginal. Jean got me 'cause parts of redeeming... It was..." _transcendent, agony, hope_ "...like saying, 'Oh, y'mean I c'n _finally_ do this?' Destroying Servitors... Yeah, I did it. You _know_ I'd've nailed someone, just for wasting my time enough. Because Hell-Media _did_ , and if y'didn't eat the little sharks, they'd nibble you t'death. But I never _wanted_ to waste anybody! Deep down..."

Nybbas took a breath. No need to mention that it'd taken him most of those years the Council'd made him wait for a promotion. No need to mention the epiphanies that he'd finally voiced to Marc in the middle of drifts of his plucked feathers, when pain and pleasure had emptied out even his tangled emotions to a high, clear place, like an Elohite communing with its Heart.

"Deep down, I was so damn relieved t' be here. Deep down, Heaven was th' place I'd always looked _up_ to." Deep down, he'd always believed -- just a little bit -- in Heavenprop.

And all he was getting off Jason was confusion, and worry, and fear. "You... you never said, Boss."

"Hey, I was a demon." He let go of his Impudite to shrug. "Not like I was gonna think about it, y'know? It's Hell. You do whatcha hafta, t'get ahead. You do whatcha do, an' what everyone _else's_ doin'. An' when y'get to Heaven... You look at it. An' you let yourself see how much it _hurts_."

Because, for all that Heaven is a lot more base than he'd hoped, a lot closer to some Hell-prop... There are moments when it's everything he'd ever wanted, and the music Soundtrack plays in his head is from nothing ever on Earth.

Like when Judith opened her eyes and looked at him and through him and said, in tones of perfect understanding, _OH._ And her static-glitter wings unfurled.

Out loud, wiping at his eyes -- because it's not _worth_ squelching the tears, and nothing's gonna eat him for crying -- he said, "Jason, kid. Let's change channels, let's try something else. I'll put you in touch with some people, 'kay?"

Jason dropped his gaze. "'Kay, Boss."

"Kid..." Nybbas waited for Jason to look up, and let his Superior aura float free, let his Word focus attention on _him_. "I don't want you dead. If you tried now, chances are that's what'd happen. And yeah, I want you back with me, 'cause you're _good_ \-- but I want you alive more, even if you decide you want to go work for some other Archangel entirely, or you'd trust some other Archangel more. You got that? _I want you to live through this._ "

It wasn't Bal-rez, and couldn't really convince someone scared, but... Jason nodded, and there was a little relief and comfort in his emotions.

Nybbas nodded back, and left, shaking his head to the guards with disappointment easy to read.

"I'm sorry, sir," one of them said. She meant it, too.

"Me too." He sighed, and shook himself, putting the bounce back in his step. "But hey, we've got time, right? Better a live angel than a dead demon."

One of the others muttered something that might have been disagreement, but the one with the radio said, "We'll pray for him, sir." And he meant that.

And for a moment, it was one of _those_ moments, because a stray Swordie who didn't understand the Media, didn't _like_ the Media, and hated demons... was willing to pray for a demon of the Media to live through redemption.

"Hey." Choked up a little. "Hey, thanks." He took a breath. "I'll just check around a little while I'm down here, see if anyone else can use a visit."

"Of course, sir."

He nodded and headed for a cell at the end of the hall.

They're his people, in here. They're his people, and he owes it to them to get them to Heaven alive, no matter how awful they were.


	75. Logfic - Gaining an Apprentice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Lilith, you are ruthless and you use words that have fairly deservedly bad nuances attached. On the other hand, for what you're doing, there aren't many words. And did we mention the long-term ruthless?)
> 
> Content Warning for Superior being arrogant and using troubling terms.
> 
> * * *

* * *

Maharang filed away the most recent email from the Boss in the appropriate folder, double-checked the response she'd received from the in-game email, and finally closed the browser window. Feeling nervous at this point was not unexpected, but to let it dictate her actions would be irresponsible. And it wouldn't do to be /that/.

She left the internet cafe at a reasonable pace, and found a quiet back alleyway with no observers. Dropped a touch of Essence into the change, and...shifted.

Wings. It was /good/ to have wings again. A quick test determined that while these didn't work nearly so easily as the good reliable butterfly wings in Heaven, they were perfectly serviceable to achieve flight.

(Maharang had carefully scheduled half an hour for trying out the wings. There was being responsible, and then there was knowing oneself.)

Before the unique beauty of wind beneath corporeal wings had lost its rush, but after some of the giddy edge had been taken off the experience, Maharang swooped back down low again, and found itself a perch on a low branch of one of the trees in the park. The tree cast a stretch of shade over a single bench that waited alongside the path laid out for joggers and bikers, though this wasn't the time of day for many of either.

And then the reliever waited patiently, well aware of the precise moment when the appointed time clicked in. And did perhaps flutter one wing as a few minutes passed. One couldn't expect everyone to be as prompt as those of Lightning were expected to be.

When the crunch of bicycle tires on gravel began, Maharang clicked its (new, interesting) beak together, and peered out along the path.  
   
   
The woman riding the bike was... immediately recognizable, actually. Indeterminate age, dark hair, eyes of a brilliant green. She paused under the tree, looked up, and raised a hand.  
   
   
Maharang dropped down from its branch to land on the waiting hand, and ducked its head politely. "Thank you for the time." It pulled its wings in around it, and resisted the urge to preen at them. Feathers were still a bit new and strange.  
   
   
"Mm." Lilith examined the parrot thoughtfully, and then sighed, lifting her hand up to her shoulder. "Well, we'll see how this works out. Here, hang onto my shirt. Don't worry about putting holes in it if you're still new to your vessel."

Once the reliever-parrot was ensconced upon her shoulder, she started biking off again, wending through the park lanes. "Consider this an audition. If you become a... Bright, you'll never be able to change your mind, not even by Falling. Lilim is Lilim." She glanced at the parrot briefly, then looked back at the path. "Why do you want this?"  
   
   
Maharang clicked its beak together once, a touch nervously. Rehearsed lines somehow never stood up to the moment of actually speaking them. "I want to know what people need. Not just how they feel, or what they really mean when they say something, but what they actually need. No other resonance can do that. Elohite is the closest, but it's not the same." It shifted slightly on her shoulder, minding the claws. "Mannie's been my role model since I was only a few days old, and I'd like to be able to do what he can."

Maharang glanced reflexively over its shoulder, and added, more quietly, "I also think I could use that resonance more...usefully, than he does. I love him dearly, but he concentrates so much on work he doesn't take the time to look at people the way he could. If I had the resonance he does, I could give people what they need."  
   
   
"You can use yourself up, giving everything." Lilith's voice was distant. She twitched herself, more noticeable to someone hanging onto a shoulder. "And I suppose I do detect a certain relieverness there. Or Brightness, true enough... What will it be like for you, if you become a reliever-born Bright? How will you feel, when you see what people might want in all its secret ugliness?"  
   
   
"I don't know how it would feel. I imagine it would hurt a little less than seeing the Truth. I've never wanted to be a Seraph." Maharang stretched a wing briefly, tucked it back away. "I'm not so naive as to believe people will only want good things, or even only things that would be good for them. But I would rather know than not. The more complete the information I have to work with, the better I can respond. As for being a reliever-born Bright..." A parrot-vessel can't quite smile, but there was a trace of that in the reliever's voice. "I imagine it would lead to many interesting conversations with Elohim."  
   
   
With rich amusement, Lilith asked, "Got a Power-fetish already, have you?"  
   
   
Maharang ducked its head down sheepishly. "It does rather come with the Superior. And I've been set an example of Bright Lilim appreciating Elohim."  
   
   
"I'd have thought the devious bastard would get people immitating him, not trying to get him psychoanalyzing them... Not a Malakite crush, then?" (She was... probably teasing. Mostly. On at least one level...)  
   
   
"I find Malakim a bit strange. To each Choir its place in the Symphony, but I find it difficult to understand them. Mannie's wishes not withstanding." Maharang considered this for a moment. "The wings are nice. But I prefer Elohim. They're more understanding."  
   
   
"They're devious, the lot of them, from newest fledge to your Boss," Lilith muttered. "But. You're here. And, if you want me to attempt the matter... you'll need to stick around. I'll not waste..." (and there was something unsaid there?) "... the attempt on someone who'll be sick of it and sorry and want to be changed back rightaway-oh-you-must. You can have email to reassure your Boss and friends that I'm not doing vile things to you, but you'll need to keep my secrets."

She paused, about to exit the park, and looked at the bird on her shoulder. Her voice was deathly serious. "Can you do that, Maharang the Younger?"  
   
   
"I can," said the reliever firmly. "The Boss addressed this issue. He's the only one who could ask me to break my word, and he won't. I'll keep any secrets you trust to me."  
   
   
"Your Boss," Lilith pointed out, "is the sneaky, devious bastard who was spying on my computer account so that he knew which alt to have you page. I trust him to do exactly as he thinks best for the Symphony. I do not trust him to keep my secrets. My Daughters... are Lilim. In the end, they cannot escape that they are my get in soul if not in body. They did not ask to be created -- though each of them chose to remain so -- and they do not know how I fashioned them. You... are not of my making. You might be able to remember, if we even attempt this. I ask you again, Maharang the Younger. Without reservation, can you keep my secrets?"  
   
   
The bird closed its eyes. "I had not realized you would ask that sort of price of me." Opened them again. "So be it. Yes. I can keep your secrets." It sighed, faintly. "He spoke the truth, when he told me that he wouldn't ask me any questions you'd told me not give answers to. But he isn't your Archangel to trust the way I trust him. My word to you that I can do what you're asking."  
   
   
Lilith... did something. It felt, vaguely, like a tightening around the throat -- then gone, after another breath. "It is no easy thing to be... well, if not green, at least Lilim. You'll be skipping one set of hurdles. It's no kindness to spare you others."

She pushed off and started pedaling again. With lighter voice, she asked, "How is your mentor doing, by the way? I haven't heard from him. He never calls, he never writes..."  
   
   
"As well as ever, I believe. Which is to say he spends a lot of time complaining about other people not working fast enough, and muttering over his work, until Kai and Nosha drag him off for coffee. Or, well. Other things." Maharang reflected that it was fortunate parrots couldn't blush. "It's not the way I'd approach assignments, but it seems to work for him."  
   
   
Lilith laughed. "And not obsessing over his brother, then?"

Her path wended out of the inhabited areas, in a steady pace. Some people gave curious, disbelieving, or admiring glances for a woman with a parrot on her shoulder.  
   
   
The reliever kept its voice low when they passed nearer possible listeners. "He keeps himself distracted, with work or with friends. I don't think he's giving himself time to obsess." Maharang shook its head quickly. "Or he might only do it out of sight. He can be very prickly about how he's seen. I don't entirely understand that. If he's concerned, why wouldn't he want to share that with his friends?"  
   
   
"Weakness is something Hellborn don't like to show. It makes them vulnerable. It makes them targets. It makes them slaves at best, and dead at second best." She paused for a traffic light. "Have you hung around any other Lilim besides that one?"  
   
   
"Oh, sure. They let me come to a few of the parties. Lin's a sweetie, if a bit..." Maharang struggled for a polite way to put it. "...Flowers. And Daane's told me all sorts of stories, and Cory keeps offering to teach me how to fight, and Kavita always--" It stopped abruptly. "I liked her."  
   
   
"Mm." It was a few more stoplights before Lilith spoke again. "And what do you think of humans, in general?"  
   
   
"They're interesting. Confused, a lot of the time, but then, they usually don't have very complete information, so it must be hard for them to make informed choices. No resonance at all, and most of them can't even hear the Symphony." It considered this for a moment. "Despite all that, many work out the right thing to do anyway, once they're given a chance."  
   
   
"Someday -- if I understand the history and party line well enough -- angels must leave Earth to the humans," Lilith commented. "When that happens, will it be total? Or will there always be just one more demonic nest to clear out? Always just one more ethereal intrusion to curtail? Always just one more demonic taint of evil to influence toward selflessness? Will humans ever have the responsibility and freedom to deal with the monsters they create on their own?"  
   
   
Maharang clicked its beak together a few times. "I'm not sure. It's not really my decision, either way. And I'll admit I have a hard time seeing why we should leave them entirely alone. We can help, so much." It considered this for a moment. "But then, maybe it's akin to when I asked Mannie if he'd let me go down to Earth to build a Role, as a reliever. And for all that I could have been hurt, and did make some mistakes... he let me. Eventually, we all need to make our own choices, and grow up. And if the Host were entirely focused on humanity alone, not combating demons, I don't know if we'd be giving them the freedom to do that growing up. I would like to think that eventually humanity will be able to handle their own problems well enough that we can leave them to it, and only welcome them as they finally reach Heaven. Though I would very much miss Earth, to leave it entirely. Kai's Dad made some beautiful things here."  
   
   
Lilith biked along in silence for a while. "There are some powers humans have, that celestials don't. Does your education cover that?"  
   
   
"They don't cause disturbance, they can use sorcery..." The reliever pondered. "I'm not sure becoming a ghost counts as a power."  
   
   
"And what does sorcery affect?" Lilith asked, bland as any Elohite teacher.  
   
   
"Eventually, all sorts of things. Directly, ethereals and demons. A matter of putting the sorcerer's will up against that of another." Maharang peered at her briefly, and returned to watching the scenery slide by at not-quite flying speed. "With ethereal spirits, it almost seems fair. Humans made them, after all. Though the ethics of forcefully imposing your own desires on another sentient being... It's a bit murky at best, and I'm told most sorcerers are less than concerned with ethics in the first place. Though there was this one sorcerer I met a few times, when Kai took me to visit, who was a good guy. Wasn't doing sorcery anymore, though."  
   
   
"Sorcery is a tool, as much as any other. The ability of the Lilim to geas others is a tool -- would you flinch from binding someone, in order to protect that person? Would you use a hook to tell an insane gunner to put down its weapon?"  
   
   
"If the circumstances required it, I wouldn't hesitate to use such methods. If we were meant to never take control over others when it became necessary, the Kyriotate resonance wouldn't be divine. And I have encountered moments when the ability to do such would have...well. Possibly allowed for a better outcome than I was able to manage through what abilities I have now." Maharang was quiet for a moment. "Though I'm not sure I would want to do so often. It might be too easy to rely on that control to the exclusion of other solutions."  
   
   
"Power corrupts. Powerful tools provide power. Powerful will can also be used to stubbornly resist corruption. Would it be wrong for some human to see an ethereal being selfish, and rein it in with sorcery?"  
   
   
"If the human's response fit the crime, as it were, I don't believe this would be necessarily wrong, no. The idea of humans dealing with ethereals in much the same way as celestials have been with humans..." Maharang bounced lightly on her shoulder. "It's nearly a recursive function, isn't it? God to the celestials, the celestials to the humans, the humans to the ethereals. Not perfect parallels, but what an interesting idea. I wonder if one could suppose a hypothetical fourth realm of--but I'm getting off topic. I apologize."  
   
   
Lilith laughed. "No, that's interesting. The point is, eventually, celestials need to butt out of human affairs. This means humans need to be able to handle human affairs -- and that includes ethereals, who are created and maintained by humans, pretty much. Jordi and his hissyfits not withstanding. The humans who can contain ethereals at all are sorcerers. Tell me where that logic leads, and then go back to that hypothetical fourth realm of what, mm?"  
   
   
"It does mean that six-Force and higher humans will become increasingly important as celestials pull out of human affairs. Which was expected, but I hadn't considered it from the angle of sorcery. I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable yet with the concept that humans would need to delve into sorcery quite that deeply. I'll have to think about it longer. As for the fourth realm..." Maharang's voice took on more animation. "God created the angels for a purpose. And while they didn't precisely make humans, at least not in a direct manner, the angels put together all of creation. The humans went and dreamed up the ethereals--well, not only humans, but they seem to be the primary contributers--and then ethereals... What do they dream up? Are they limited to interacting with each other and those further back in the chain, or will they some day open up a whole new realm of their own creations, as different from what we have now as the ethereal is from the corporeal? If their versions of fate and destiny are so different from those of humans, which are different from those of celestials again, what would the brightest and darkest potential of their creations be?" The parrot ducked its head. "I...would rather like to go posit this on certain mailing lists when the opportunity comes up, now that I'm thinking about it. But I won't if that would tread too close to certain of your affairs."  
   
   
"It treads close -- but perhaps not too close. What about computers? Artificial intelligences? If they work, might they be creatures of mind fused into the corporeal? You should know, little spark, about how computers become faster and faster, and people posit lives that are limited only by the speed of light." Lilith grinned, signaled a left turn, and headed into areas where houses were few and far between.  
   
   
"I've heard that theory before. I suppose it's no stranger than tiny single-celled organisms developing into humanity." Maharang turned its head to watch as the scenery changed. "It leaves you in an interesting situation once Heaven finally turns all its Tethers to Earth into one-way doors. The only human Superior, with all of humanity to watch over, and its creations as well? It's rather as if Eli were left alone to do the job of all the Archangels at once."  
   
   
"Well, for starters, I don't want the job. I'd far rather empower everyone and let them sort it out the way mortal policemen chase after mortal criminals. The eugenics and social manipulation required to uplift humanity to a general six Forces are going to be annoying enough." And the stretch of road was flat enough for Lilith to look at Maharang's reactions from the corner of her eye.  
   
   
Maharang bounced on its feet, without letting go of her shoulder. "You're going to be working on that entire project by yourself?" That was very nearly envy, in its voice. "How long do you expect it will take? Do you imagine you'll be able to include Symphonic awareness as part of that, or would someone still need to grant that ability separately?"  
   
   
"In order: aside from you, and any unknowing minions, yes. Probably a few centuries at the least." She made a face. "And I'll settle for the remaining need for a ritual. There are sorcererous rituals which don't send the sorcerer to Hell, after all. Nothing wrong with college prep classes for them, or some such."  
   
   
"I really get to help?" Even through a parrot's beak, Maharang sounded breathless. "I'm starting to wish I hadn't done my emphasis in physics."  
   
   
Lilith blinked. With surprise, she said, "You look forward to this? To vast amounts of work and little reward and still trying to keep secret the whole Heaven-destiny-Hell-fate thing?"  
   
   
"Vast work, little reward, keeping massive secrets... I _am_ a Sparky. That's practically our job description. And you're offering me a chance to work on one of the most important projects for the future of humanity in...wow. I couldn't say how long. Possibly ever. How could I not be looking forward to it?" Maharang giggled quietly to itself. "This is going to be so neat."  
   
   
After blinking several times, Lilith... laughed, for the better part of several minutes. "Point taken. Mind, I'm doing this on my own, and not asking the Seraphim Council or anyone else for permission or blessing. They might just have a cow. Literally, in Jordi's case."  
   
   
"I imagine he already has several. Though... no, I suppose he wouldn't be very happy about leaving all of Earth to the humans. Even if they'll have the opportunity to do so much better with the planet once you've finished this project." Maharang tilted its head to one side. "I wonder if by that time a means of, say, uplifting certain animal species in a process similar to that done with humans would become apparent. Not that I'm necessarily suggesting this is a good idea, but it's an idea of some sort."  
   
   
"Maybe. The thing about free will is that people do things with it. Might be that humans do trash the place and crash and burn." Lilith shrugged her other shoulder, and turned the bike onto a much less-well paved road. "Might be mistakes, might be deliberate, who knows? I'd not be inclined to stick to ideals long enough for other people to foul my home, but how far out do we go? Space habitats? Terraforming?"  
   
   
"I'm not sure. By the time that point is reached, I suspect it's going to be humanity's choice, no matter what Heaven would prefer. I'd like to think that, given more opportunities and more information, humans would largely take that chance to make better choices for themselves, the planet, and the universe all around them. But as some people would remind me, I'm still young, and inclined towards optimism."  
   
   
"Tends to depend on how long they expect to live, and how starving their young are," Lilith explained. "It's amazing how much is really self-interest."  
   
   
"Ah, right. The biological imperative. Take care of one's own young. I sometimes wonder how much of humanity's salvation might come from that built-in urge to be concerned for someone else, if only to pass on their own genes." Maharang carefully detached one foot to scratch the side of its head. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to do a great deal of learning. I only studied the bare requirements of biology."  
   
   
"It's fairly simple -- if only because Force potential inheritance isn't well understood. Besides, I'm hardly going to try to force people to breed. Ugh." Lilith made a face again. "It's more a case of finding people with good potential and arranging for them to meet with others. If they're aware they're a subset of humanity who does hear things, that's something they have in common. Needs to be frequent outcrossings, large families, incentives for both -- we want the potential spread throughout the gene pool, after all. And then, of course, there's the Watchers' brood. Pity it's so hard to track them down these days."  
   
   
"I've never quite understood what happened with the Watchers. It doesn't make any sort of sense that I can figure to make them able to breed with humans, and then toss the possibility of Nephilim into the mix. That's one of those things I usually end up chalking up as ineffable and trying not to think about too hard. Not that being a Nephil or Gorgon is necessarily a career-killer, as Al would point out. But still." Maharang peered curiously at Lilith. "I don't suppose you have any theories on the matter?"  
   
   
Dryly, Lilith said, "I try not to second guess Him. It leads to headaches. Maybe it was simply a side-effect of making angels so akin to humans that they could lead them without tromping all over their free will. Doesn't mean that I can't factor the effects into my uplift program, though. Who's Al?"  
   
   
"The former sorcerer I mentioned earlier. He's a Gorgon. Which means he mostly stays out of sight, and when he has to interact with strangers, wears a hat and stays in really brightly-lit rooms so the glowing doesn't show up as much. Nice guy, fun to talk to. A friend of Kai's." Maharang fluffed up its feathers irritably. "Mannie absolutely loathes him, though, and has never explained why when I asked. I get the feeling he's not telling me something for what he considers my own good. I don't like that. Isn't more information better?"  
   
   
"Depends. Say, for example, that Saminga had -- instead of getting deservedly destroyed -- redeemed. Would it do any good to any little reliever friends it might have made, to tell them what a thoroughly disgusting and wretched thing it used to be? Or maybe they had an argument, and he owes Mannie for silence about it. Could be anything." Lilith shrugged again, still with the opposite shoulder. "Still, if he knows sorcery... Do you know if he used a 'clean' ritual to initiate, or does he owe his soul to Kronos?"

By now, she'd gotten to a turn-off point, and was heading along what would seem a deer-trail, except for the lack of things to capsize a bike.  
   
   
"I didn't talk about that sort of thing with him much, but he only ever dealt with ethereals, not demons. So I think he's pretty clean. They probably wouldn't let him stay at the Tether otherwise." Maharang peered about at the trail, but chose not to ask after it. "I understand what you mean about telling relievers, but growing up means learning how to deal with harder truths, doesn't it? But maybe Mannie does owe him silence over something."  
   
   
"Or it could be something that Mannie feels would bias you unnecessarily. He has gone off working for mister ruthless objectivity, after all. Or a debt. Or both. As for the rites -- Fate had his withered old fingers in a number of places. To be sure, I'd want to look over a copy of the ritual used. And him, to see if he should be deliberately added to the program," she added casually.  
   
   
"I like objectivity," Maharang murmured, and cocked its head. "Al doesn't really leave the Tether, these days. If you actually wanted to meet him, that might get...well. Possibly interesting, considering the Tether. But I can at least give you his email address, if you wanted to ask."  
   
   
"It's certainly a thought. Or you could ask, if it'd be more likely he'd tell you."  
   
   
"He'd want to know why I was asking, but he'd tell me. He trusts angels. Maybe a litte too much, sometimes." Maharang laughed briefly. "I blame Kai for that."  
   
   
"Oh, some of us trust the Divine far, far too much at times." Lilith's voice sounded extremely dry. "You could tell him you had a line on some sorcery notes, and wanted to make sure he hadn't done anything extremely bad for his soul. And if he had... Well. There are ways to get out of the matter. Kronos is... elsewhere, after all."  
   
   
Maharang blinked once at her tone, but chose not to comment on it. "If there's even a chance of that being a danger... Yes, of course I'll ask him about it. Even if his mother was careful not to deal with demons, there's no point in taking chances based on assumptions."  
   
   
"So. First order of business..." And about then, a shining white house with solar panels on the roof came into view. "...Is to get your email set up and check in with this fellow. Whatever other issues I might have, or others have with me, I never was particularly fond of Kronos. Or his pet Balseraph."  
   
   
Maharang took a moment to admire the solar panels. "I'll do that first thing, then. And how soon can we start on the rest of it?"  
   
   
Lilith laughed, sliding off the bike and walking it to the opening garage door. "Patience. It's not like breeding fruit flies. One has to look for candidates, raise them up right, introduce them without letting on that you're hoping for chemistry..."  
   
   
"I suppose I've lived through enough proto-Roles to be able to manage patience on long-term projects by now," the reliever said. "Though if this project doesn't require that I go through junior high a fourth time, I'll have a much easier time of it."  
   
   
Stowing the bike on little hooks on the side of the garage, Lilith laughed again. "Only if you want to, dear. I suppose it might be useful, since most humans with extra Forces manifest them around puberty, but pure high school might be better -- and I think we could arrange different Roles if we go that route. Primarily, I'm working with a few core people and their families. They need training, after all, and they need to choose it."

She headed into the house, the garage door closing quietly behind, and waved around. "If the place looks like a Lightning safehouse, that's because it is. Your devious bastard Boss says it wasn't made exactly for me, but I'm no Seraph to call him on it. Do you have attunements to use keyboards in that form, or will I need to craft up a silent zone for you to change vessels -- you have a human one, I presume? The parrot is definitely going to be useful, though, when I'm needing a familiar. It's a nuisance to multi-vessel when I'm in contact with myself. Feels awful."  
   
   
"High school isn't nearly as dreadful as junior high. Even if going through basic chemistry experiments the third time through gets a touch old." Maharang followed her wave, and clacked its beak. "Very nice. And I'm afraid I haven't earned any such attunements yet, no. But I do have a spare human vessel, with a minor Role attached, both of which are at your disposal." It dropped down off her shoulder to investigate the room. "I'm happy to have this parrot vessel myself. The one thing I've always truly missed while on the corporeal plane is wings."  
   
   
Lilith chuckled, watching the reliever-parrot. "Flying is definitely nice. You putter around. I'll be down in the basement fortifying a pentagram, so to speak. Might as well have a silenced zone I can bamf into, though I'll have to hook something up so no one else uses it without permission..."  
   
   
Maharang nearly asked if it could watch, but decided this would have been offered if it were an option. "Will do."


	77. Queen of Swords

* * *

* * *

She should not dream. The attunement is lost, with so many other things. Lost, with the part of herself that is gone and fled. The absence that leaves her too straight, too open, too empty.

And yet she is walking misty halls, watching in windows as her awake self watches her master and the victorious... is he a king-piece? A queen? She's not sure. King of Spades, perhaps. That fits better than any chess piece.

The windows pass, the halls grow darker. She is drawn to stairs that spiral ever deeper in ivory and stone walls.

A woman's voice says, "How very strange. You're not supposed to be here."

She feels the brush of lace and silk on her face, sees twilight robes flicker in the corner of her eye, and walks on. But now she cannot find the stairs down. They only lead up.

She has never, ever, _ever_ in her life given in to tears. She has never had the urge. And yet now, she sits at the base of the stairs and weeps for all the reasons she forgets.

Eventually, each tear is a mirror that reflects her. The dark robes and hidden blades in a droplet that splits as she watches -- one the same, the other with a crown of diamonds. A broken, rag-clad figure on dirty steps. A corpse that knows not her own death, wandering and lost. A prisoner, scraping at stone and walls.

The lace brushes her face again, it seems. A mirror shows her with a smile, a glow, a business suit in pale gold and amber. She pushes it away. She pushes away the one where she holds a book. The one where she holds a mirror. She does not like the one where she rides a motorcycle in the night, and the camera... it is wrong, a horrible wrongness that makes her claw at the image until the silk sweeps it away again.

The computer... No, it's not enough. She stands and walks. Walks past glittering diamonds, past a tree in bloom in a garden, past the burning flames. She will not run, but she will walk _quickly_. Eyes shine from the shadows, and unhuman throats voice mutters. She strides away from them.

For a moment, she walks through halls of wood and sunlight, and two others pace behind her, but she leaves them behind, turning to the first shadows she sees.

The echos of music, dirge fading to waltz. Smells of paint and clay. They are _chasing_ her, and she wants to weep again as she hurries from them.

A clash of blades makes her pause, in a moment that stretches. Some way to defend herself. She almost turns to it, but old instincts whisper of the trap. On, into the dark where the mirrors are not. Surely, in this darkness, she can find her master. Surely. And yet there are so many dead ends. She pats one, turns back.

Behind her, a voice says (and not quite to her), "Mother?" There is disbelief in it, though understated.

She turns back, and wonders if this is another mirror, of herself in gray that is too dark, silver that is not red.

The otherself looks at her, and frowns. The mirrorself holds something out, and she takes it, instinctively. Holds out something else, and she takes that. Holds up a true-mirror, and she sees herself in proper colors, with a naked sword in her hand, point down. Something small in her other hand.

She looks at it. A card that blurs between forms in her eyes. Queen of Spades.

When she looks up again, the otherself is gone, and there is only soft, comforting darkness ahead. Again, she tries to see the card, as the warm blankness creeps up to take away the pain. It's blurred to Tarot, now. Queen of Swords.


	78. Talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Backtime a bit...)

* * *

* * *

"So... who is she?"

Aaron looked up from his computer. "Lady Una?"

"Yeah." The "stray" that Lady Una'd handed off to him was cleaner, and a little less gaunt after a week at Aaron's house, but still ragged in many ways. Still, Ralinda tended to curl up on the corner of the sofa and just... watch, with her hands locked together as if to keep them from going anywhere.

Aaron leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table. "She is..." He decided on more truth than not. "Something ancient that keeps her pacts, and nothing that will claim a soul in return, she says."

Ralinda's fingers were tight around each other. "Pacts? What kind of pacts?"

"Well, my mother buys and sells cars for her." He smiled at her.

"What?"

He moved his hands through the air, in wider gestures than usual, as if he could relax her by example. "Cars. She buys old junkers, 'to fix up,' meets up with Lady Una, and they go off and sell them five counties over. In the middle, they do a ritual that fixes up the car. Poof, old car like new. Then they sell it, use some of the money to buy some other junker, and eventually wind up back here with a new used car."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"But... she's some _immortal_ person, and she needs someone to help her... sell _cars_?"

Aaron shrugged. "She says it's a good way to build up hard-to-trace cash reserves. Eventually, she helped mom set up bank accounts and stock market things. But they still go car-shopping together now and then."

"Your mother... doesn't..."

"She's not a sorcerer, no." Aaron'd seen the _veves_ Ralinda'd drawn on paper and set around the bed in the spare room. Rote-work, most of them, but one... There'd been a tingle of true power there, though fading.

"And you are."

"'One who owns his own soul,'" he quoted. "Lady Una taught me the rituals."

Ralinda drew up her knees to her chin, so that only her intense dark eyes showed above them.

Almost, Aaron went back to the typing that was required by his "day job." But there was a tension in the girl (who should have been "young woman," if she were not so unsure of herself and her powers). So he waited.

Finally, she said, "What do I have to do to learn?"

He looked at his hands, and the worn ivory of the computer keyboard, before he looked back to her. "Did you call up the thing the Lady rescued you from?"

She shook her head easily, and he thought that was true. "No. It was... m' grandaunt." Words started spilling out of her, more than she'd said before, with her hands twitching in each other's grasp like caged creatures. "In the wars, m' parents died. I _knew_ Grandaunt Louise. So when she came for me, at the shelter, they let her take me. Even though m' parents said she wasn't someone they wanted around. She kept me out of school, most times, working on..."

"The _veves_?"

"Yeah. Those. Other things. She... When I was eighteen..."

He frowned thoughtfully. "Why then? That's a legal number, not a mystic one."

"It's when no one'd care if I went to school or not, I think."

"Mm." Aaron nodded. "She called up something to possess you?" That was usually what the _veve_ -drawing traditions did. Sometimes that worked out fine. Sometimes... not.

The silence stretched again. Ralinda whispered, "Yes."

"It... took her?" he guessed.

Again, the thin thread of voice. "Yes."

He looked at his own hands, still and calm on the table. "Would you like me to sit next to you?"

Her in-drawn breath blended with the computer's fan. "If you want."

Aaron got up and sat down next to her. He didn't have any siblings, so he wasn't sure if he was being _brotherly_ when she eventually uncurled enough to cry on his shoulder (terror and the stress of years finding some kind of release), but at least she let him put an arm around her shoulders, and slip one hand into the desperate prison of hers.


	79. Council Politics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backfill to before Nybbas' promotion.

* * *

* * *

"I fail to see why you think he is ready to be elevated, Jean," Laurence sighed.

Mildly, the Elohite replied, "The cost to benefit ratio has tipped in favor of it. He is not perfectly suited for the responsibility in many ways, but he is sufficiently adept that it would be useful. Heaven can afford the suboptimal aspects at this time, more than we could when we were still fighting the true War."

"He's got _bat_ wings," Michael pointed out, leaning back in his chair. "You're _coddling_ him."

"Somewhat. They serve numerous psychological purposes for him, some more beneficial than others."

Dominic shifted. "How can clinging to his demonic seemings be _beneficial_?"

Jean frowned slightly. "Marc, if you would explain some of the relevant psychological factors?"

The Mercurian cleared his throat, entirely unnecessarily. "Mm. All right." He leaned forward, fingertips of his hands together. "Essentially, Nybbas' Word has, to use the slang, eaten him. It's why he was so desperate to regain it. If I lost my Word, I would still be _Marc_ , as I was before I gained Trade. I'd be crippled and hurting, but I think my core would be more whole than his was."

Janus harumphed in what was probably mock jealousy. "So we gave him the Word right after he sprouted feathers."

"Patience, my dear," Marc said primly. "I'm getting there. The effect upon Nybbas is that he is very tied to his Word, which has good points -- his Soundtrack attunement, for instance, has some very interesting abilities now that it's linked to the Divine form of the Word. But there are... less-good points. Chief among those is that he is _influenced_ by his Word, in a feedback loop."

"Get to the point," Janus suggested.

"I am. Bluntly, he's the Media, and the Media is 'larger than life.' Therefore, so is he. What might be more subtle manifestations of issues are magnified under the camera lens. He is very nearly as incapable of moderation in his emotions as a Seraph, or our Gabriel." Marc leaned back. "Is that what you wanted elaborated on, Jean?"

"Yes. Thank you." Jean nodded. "The 'demonic' manifestations you see are, in essence, akin to every over-blown act of 'teenage rebellion.' How far can he go? Where is the hypocrisy that he still subconsciously expects? Is Heaven as good as he subconsciously hoped? Will we love him for _him_ and not for the falsehood that he can project -- that he _had_ to project, to survive in Hell?"

Tiredly, Novalis murmured, "It's not a good example."

"No," Jean agreed. "It's not. But I have taken that into account in my cost-benefit analysis. Whenever he has been placed in a position with an angelic choice and a demonic choice -- he has shown himself angel. Sometimes reluctantly, sometimes with a veneer of old habits, sometimes expressed inappropriately. But he reaches out to comfort, to aid, and to redeem."

Laurence sighed. "I'm still not comfortable with elevating him yet."

Jean inclined his head, and tipped his open hand to the Lord Commander. "It would be efficient to elevate him now. It is not yet crucial."

Janus, whirling above, snickered. "Yeah, give it a few more decades. Marc'll rub off on him, right?"

Marc rolled his eyes. "I move we proceed to more important business than _that_ nuance."

"Seconded," Laurence rapped out before Janus could object. "Novalis, could you report on the state of the damned?"


	80. Failure

* * *

* * *

Failure... not Nybbas, not _him_.

Not with a life placed in his hands.

All right, he'd _known_ that she wasn't a good risk, he'd _known_ that a Habbalite who wouldn't release her delusion wasn't going to be easy, but... she'd _trusted_ him. She'd said she'd do whatever it took, to serve the Word again, even if that meant bleaching. And she'd _meant_ it.

She'd meant it.

But somewhere in the middle, the Forces had been stripping off, and okay, it was bad, it was pretty bad, but he was patching, he was healing, he was _holding on_ because he _didn't let his people down_. He didn't. He didn't let go. He didn't stop.

Except there wasn't anything _left_ to patch. No revelation, no sudden wisping away to nothing, no turning point to tell him that it'd become impossible. Just... he was working with five Forces, and then four, and then three, and then two, and then...

Nothing. Nothing to try something heroic. Nothing to take and bind into a reliever.

Nothing left.

She'd been an actress, and passionate, and a brilliant mimic. She'd sat on his desk as a new fledge and told him that casting couches were for wimps. She'd walked behind a televangelist and given miracles to boost the ratings, but only shills and plants when angels came sniffing around.

And now she was gone.

And Nybbas didn't even know what he'd done wrong.


	81. Heroics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Remember Rally? From the chapter "Expectations.")

* * *

* * *

Rally dashed from the rubbled wall of the compound to the shadow of a still-standing building, with her two companions following. Rich's helmet was cracked along the faceplate, despite his hopeful tappings to see if it would remember being whole again. Over their helmet radios, Cynthia said, "Quit that, Rich -- it takes a microwave to heal 'em."

"I can't see straight, dammit."

"Covering fire, then," Rally ordered. "Cynthia, you'll come with me."

"You're the boss," Cynthia said, shifting her grip on the riot-control half-rifle.

"But--" Rich protested.

"There're civilians in there," Rally snapped. "Your vision's bad. Keep that helmet on, and give us cover."

"Yes, dammit," he agreed, reluctantly.

Rally glanced at the little numbers in her helmet's HUD. "Two-minute mark."

Shots rattled behind them, and Cynthia swore. "They've flanked us!"

Rally snapped, "Rich, fall back to the wall and cover us there." She turned and fired three times, single-shot and without aiming, but accurate enough to make the compound defenders duck back behind an overturned van.

There was muttered "dammit dammit dammit," but Rich did while Cynthia and Rally kept the defenders' heads down.

Rally said, "Control, Ralinda here. Going in early -- flanked."

"Cam's still working," came the calm voice of their team's Control. "Be careful in there."

"Understood. Rich, keep 'em busy."

"Dammit."

Control murmured, "When they're in, Rich, I'm switching you to Moat team."

Rally turned and beckoned to her teammate, and ran for the next building.

The door was locked. Cynthia snapped off a few shots while Rally backed off a step and slammed her foot into the door. Again. Again. She felt it giving. Again.

The door crashed inward. Shots came from inside, one of them taking Rally in the shoulder. She grunted at the impact, and the wave of heat as her suit converted the kinetic energy into a bruise.

The people inside with the guns had uniforms. Cynthia and Rally opened fire, and two of them went down while the third ducked into the hall.

"Girls' night out, huh?" Cynthia said, and dashed in to chase the uniformed defender.

"Guess so," Rally answered, pulling out the tranq-gun and firing at the downed compound guards. Sleep, heal-drugs, and a strip in the break-away needle that'd locate them for later. "Control, two guards tranqed."

There were more shots, and Cynthia's voice came over the radio. "Make it three. Here's the stairs."

"On my way."

They clattered down them, head-on into a barricade of sand bags and office furniture. Four more guards were behind it, and Rally took hits, yelping as one of them caught her in the belly like a hot punch. No cover, though, so she plunged on, firing more to confuse them than with hope of hitting. The next shot was hot enough to scald, and her angel-suit earned its name, unfurling the heat-vanes like wings from the backpack.

She was close enough, and clubbed one of the guards with the butt of her half-rifle. Another went down with his chest red and splattering. Rally'd seen worse as a teenager, once, but she winced even so and kicked out to trip the third guard before Cynthia shot that one in a panic, too.

They paused long enough to tranq the lot: two groggy, two shot and one of those probably dead already but no time to check or reason not to waste a tranq. Then down the hall, down a ramp, stop at a T-intersection. "Which way, Control?" Rally demanded, swinging her helmet back and forth so the cam could pick up the options.

"Left, but right's looking like a connector, so clear there first so Silver team can get through for backup."

"Bunch wargamers," Cynthia muttered.

"We need 'em," Rally replied, serenely. The team Controls weren't on the ground, under fire, but they were back in their room, calling information back and forth to each other, with screens full of data in front of them. With an operation big enough that they were calling in high-combat teams from six counties, most of whom didn't know each other... The team Controls were the only thing keeping order. "C'mon."

They ran forward, heat-vanes furling down as the energy dissipated, and at the end of the hall... The door there opened into a rough-dug tunnel that zig-zagged.

Control's voice came over the helmet radios. "Brown squad, slow up. May get friendly fire soon."

"Gotcha." Rally hunched lower and moved more quietly.

They both paused as they heard someone yelling ahead. Cynthia's snicker came over the radio alone, and they crept forward.

Another barricade, just sandbags this time, and one of the guards frantically trying to get someone else on his walkie-talkie. Another, watching the other side, had something in her hand with a wire leading under the sandbags.

Rally waved Cynthia to go in, holding the tranq-gun. "Move in. I'll get the woman."

"Aw, Rally, someday _I_ want to get the girl." But she moved out around the zag and trotted toward the group. It was a good trot, at just the right speed to cover distance while not being so fast to quite alarm.

Rally aimed and shot the woman guard with the tranq; she hit in the arm holding the whatever-it-was, and smiled with satisfaction as the woman dropped the thing. Then she switched to the half-rifle.

The guards returned fire, of course, ducking down or scrambling over the other (and higher) side to get away from the two policewomen. Cynthia's suit unfurled the vanes -- drooping, then raising up behind her half a meter, with the coolant gel starting to glow from the energy conversions.

Real angels had white wings or black ones, not glowing orange like stovetop burners, but Rally wouldn't mock the suits that kept her and her team alive.

The last guard fell, and Cynthia snarled, "Hell, I'm gonna be sunburned and beat tomorrow."

"Better cooked than cold," Rally said. "Control, one of them had a wired gizmo. Tell Silver team to be careful."

"Understood," was their Control's cool reply. "Back to the main objective. Watch the wings on doorways, Cyn."

"Hell, yes."

They ran back, wary for more guards. Nothing. Back to the junction. Still nothing, and Cynthia's wings had begun to furl down again. Cynthia muttered, "Where are the rest?"

"Should be one more stairway around here..." Rally thought nasty things about people who dug underground shelters and then turned them into underground labs, and finally sold them to end-of-the-world fruitcake communes.

"No, more guards. We're supposed to be getting out the breeding stock. Where are the guards?"

"Damn good question." Rally thought nastier things about end-of-the-world fruitcakes who didn't restrict themselves to immediate family, but went around kidnapping unrelated women and children.

The hall dead-ended, though they'd passed nothing but office-style doors. Cursing, they went back and tried each one, kicking them in if necessary. Most were empty, save for beds or crates of food and water.

The one with gunfire was the one with the stairs behind it. A shot cracked into Rally's helmet, and she ducked back before she got her faceplate cobwebbed like Rich's.

"They're not even guards!" Cynthia cried in outrage, ducking back as well with her wings flaring back to life again.

Control murmured, "Ral, I've lost your camera."

"Cynthia's okay?"

"Yes. Stay in front of her if you can, please."

"Damn legal paranoids," Rally growled. "Understood."

"I cover you?" Cynthia said.

"Yes. Aim high. I'm going to try to tranq 'em -- not guards, right?" She could only recall flashes of scared faces.

"Women and maybe some teens. Half a dozen, maybe. No uniforms. Control?"

"Camera replay verifies, Cyn," Control agreed.

"I'll try tranqs. On three. One, two, _three_." Rally swung around, with the tranq-pistol in her hand and the half-rifle clipped to her belt.

The defenders were just women and kids, looked like. What they lacked in aim, they made up for in enthusiasm and ammo. Rally forced her mind into the ritual patterns just to stay calm enough to aim and fire, despite the punches of their bullets and the heat of her suit converting the energy. The suit-wings flared up behind her, changing her center of balance a little and casting an orange glow in the hallway.

More came to replace the fallen, in a trickle and then a final wave, and by the time Rally was done, her suit-wings were blazing and there were at least ten unconscious bodies on the floor.

They picked their way down carefully. Rally paused, and looked at the stairway again. Too narrow, compared to the hallway beyond... "Cynthia... Swap helmets. I want you to drag these people up and away from the stairs. If we get backup, get 'em down, or get them to help you pull people out. I'll go on ahead."

"All right." Cynthia and Rally pulled their helmets off nearly in unison, with Cynthia keeping hers pointed down. "What's up?" she asked quietly, once they had plausible deniability away from the microphones.

"I think this stairway is rigged to blow. Whole place could be, for that matter. I don't know if it's a deadman switch somewhere else, or a live red button. But I figure there's not guards here 'cause they don't have enough _and_ they figure that if this place blows, they've got martyrs and we're the bad guys. Bad enough we're coming in here with squads and riot-rifles." She handed her camera-busted helmet to her teammate. "I want people out of here, not us pulled back for a bomb squad. That just gives time for a button pushing party."

Cynthia whistled, swapping her helmet in return. "I'll get 'em out. Last thing we need's martyrs -- on _either_ side, Rally."

"Though I walk in the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, 'cause I have the better tech," Rally said, putting Cynthia's helmet on. "Control, you reading me?"

For once, Control sounded a bit snippy. "I am, Ral. Configuring helmet inputs. You shouldn't be splitting the party like this."

"Rich got offlined, and I want these poor duped folks out of here a-sap. Someone's got to find the civilians, and I'm team-leader."

"Understood, Ral." Control was back to serene again, mostly.

Rally waved to Cynthia. "Watch out for flankers."

"Will-do."

Rally ran on, down one more ramp that switched back and finally... at a door. She kicked it down, with her tranq-gun ready, and shot the uniformed guard-woman in the room beyond.

Beyond _that_... Control whispered, "Bingo."

Once, it had clearly been a hydroponics garden. Now it was a hodge-podge of fabric "walls" combined with someone's attempt to duplicate an antique dungeon. Bolts in the walls had chains or ropes leading to them, the other ends on handcuffs or collars that held some twenty young women. A dozen or so kids -- mostly girls -- had leashes on a dog-run line, so they could get back and forth to a porta-outhouse. The prisoners were all different ethnicities, with blacks and caucasians in the majority; apparently the fruitcakes weren't racist-picky, or else they wanted genetic diversity.

"Police," Rally announced, probably unnecessarily, loud enough to cut through the shrieks and babble. "I'm here to get you out. Are there keys on the guard?"

Another babble of answers and questions came to that. Rally sighed, reached under her helmet to crank up the speaker volume, and said, "Quiet, please!" It worked, save for some kids crying at the noise. She cranked down the volume and pointed to a black-haired Asian woman who looked a trace calmer than the others. "You. Does the guard have keys to the chains?"

The prisoner shook her head. "Not all of them. A few."

"Damn. All right. Everyone _stay calm_. My partner's watching the stairway up, and we've got several teams inside the compound. We have plenty of time to get people out." Maybe true, maybe not, but better to pretend that. She went to the sensible-looking woman and flipped up her visor before she handed the prisoner her belt knife. "Cut the ropes if you can, and pass it along. Honestly, if you can keep the kids on the leashes with some of _you_ holding them, that'd probably be safer for them."

Wryly, the woman grinned at her. "You've got kids, officer?"

"Cousins. About a dozen little ones. I'll search the guard for the keys."

It went smoother than she'd expected. There were only a half-dozen women whose chains didn't have keys, and two of them were wearing leather collars that Rally's knife could manage. There weren't any "plants" of loyal or brainwashed believers. And, just as she was about to try the cinematic trick of shooting a chain apart, Cynthia voice came through the radio. "Silver team is on their way down, Rally. Two guys -- I've got the third helping me get the trank-bodies up and out."

"Thank God. Got about thirty, thirty-five here, if Control didn't tell you." Control could toggle private messages, of course.

"I heard. Think we found all the civilians?"

Rally looked around. "Are there any other kidnapped people who aren't here?"

The woman shook their heads. A few bent their heads to talk to the kids, but no one started wailing about a captured sibling or friend who wasn't present. "Looks like we did, Cynthia."

Two more angel-suited cops, their wings furled down nicely, came in the door. The first one flipped up his visor, showing dark-tan skin and golden-brown eyes. "What's the story, Brown leader?"

"Got four who need the chains broken, and the rest are loose. Got the kids on leashes to keep 'em with us. My name's Rally."

"Lem," the Silver team man said. "And Kevin. Kev here can start taking people up. Our Control says that they're clearing a way for a truck, where your team came in."

"Sounds good. Get them through that stairway as fast as you can, though."

Lem nodded, with the serious eyes of someone who had made the same paranoid guesses she had. "Understood. Kev -- three unattended, three with kids. Send Stewie down if he's done up there."

The other Silver team member nodded, though he muttered something that didn't go to Rally's radio before he flipped his own visor to show Hispanic, brown eyes. Good-naturedly, he said, "Ladies, if I could have three volunteers -- you, you, and you, ma'am? And three children with their grown-ups, please." He pointed out children small enough for their impromptu guardians to carry. In the lead, he invited, "Right this way, please."

"If you can get everyone to the side, I can try to shoot out these chains," Rally told Lem.

Lem pulled at one of the thin chains that led between the bolt in the wall and a woman's handcuffs. "Tried your knife on it?"

Rally said, "It couldn't be _that_ easy, could it?"

Lem took his own knife out. "Might be. Cover everyone's eyes, please -- could be flying splinters." He shut his own visor.

Rally glanced over to make sure that no one was looking, then closed her own visor so she could watch.

With concentration, Lem worked the tip of his knife into a link of the chain, bracing it on the floor. The tip of the blade sunk into the industrial-style carpet. Lem raised his body up, got the hilt in the heel of one hand with the other bracing it up and down, and _shoved_ down.

The link snapped. Rally heard it click.

And, with the ears of her soul, she thought she heard something else protest.

Out loud, she said, "Good work. Next two are over at the other corner."

She helped that woman (brown haired caucasian) coil the slack chain up and out of the way around her arm, and listened with the ears of her soul.

Nothing for the second chain's shattering, and then two more whispers brushed past her, and that silent one might simply have been too far away at first. But Lem was helping her get people out, and she'd deal with him if she had to.

Kevin, the second Silver team member, got back as Rally and Lem were sorting the remaining fifteen women and ten kids. One of the children was a fair-haired boy who'd been gotten with his mother, and the two clung together even though he was really too big to be carried, and his mom too small to carry him. Rally didn't know if the kidnap victims had been abused beyond captivity, and wasn't going to ask; she didn't want anyone breaking down any further. Numb and following orders was better for getting them _out_.

Kevin took five women and three kids for the next batch, and passed Cynthia in the switchback ramp. She got four, each with a kid, and including the mom-son pair.

There was a tense wait, but no one suggested they move up the ramp, closer to that ominous stairway. The next one down was the third Silver team member, Stewie, who was the shortest guy in an angel-suit that Rally'd ever seen, and who had the friendliest voice she'd ever heard. "Truck's ready! Let's get everyone out of here."

Lem hoisted the unconscious guard to his shoulder. "Ready. Let's get through the stairway quickly, and up to the truck."

Stewie led the way. Rally came after all the rescued prisoners, and Lem followed after her.

They got to the stairway without incident. Stewie and the women got up it, with Stewie going fast enough that either he'd guessed, or Lem'd outright told his Control once they got down there.

Lem himself, though, stumbled on some debris from the loyalist fruitcake women and kids who'd been there, and went to one knee, trying to keep the unconscious guard from tumbling down.

Rally went to help him.

And then Control was screaming in her ear, "Out! Get out! They found the last stand! Out!"

She started to scramble, tugging at Lem. Lem didn't let go of the guard.

Rally turned, with her back to the stairway, to tell him to drop the bitch and get out...

And the stairway exploded.

 

When Rally came to, she was hot, sweating, hurting with bruises and burns, and -- she fancied -- smelling like a pot roast. She was hip-deep in rubble, lying on top of the guard, with Lem beneath them both. Lem's visor was open, and he was whispering what sounded like a prayer. Spiderweb cracks went across her visor, and what she could see of Lem's. The only light came from inside his helmet, and an orangey glow.

"I'm alive," Rally mumbled. "Control?"

Nothing. The helmet must have been too badly damaged. She looked over her shoulder, and caught sight of her suit's wings, crimped near-closed and glowing. "Not out long," she mumbled to herself, and reached up to pull her own helmet off. Her hair was braided flat against her skull, but a few wisps got loose around her forehead. "Hey. The guard alive, too?"

Lem stopped whispering, and nodded. "I think so. Still out, though. You okay?"

She ached all over. She _burned_ all over. She had a headache. She'd bitten her lip somehow. "Yeah. You?"

"I was scared to move you two."

"Not to mention we're heavy." She pushed back, wincing, and started wiggling her feet free of the boards and rock that had blown around them. "Thank God for angel-suits. Your helmet working?"

He shook his head. "I can't raise Control. They may think we're dead."

"Damn." She looked around, but it was mostly dust and dark. At least there was enough dark _not_ lit by her suit-wings to suggest they weren't in a tiny enclosed space. "Well, no sense lying here till we find out."

"Point." Lem started shifting around as well, trying to be careful of the woman guard.

When she was free enough, one of Rally's suit-wings popped up, glowing. The other remained crimped down, with broken struts. That even one of them worked was good news for the temperature. Unfortunately, once it bled off the energy... She patted her belt and suit pockets, and came up with a glowstick and flashlight. The flashlight showed that they had the landing, but the hydroponics garden below was a cave-in.

Lem sighed. "Do we start digging?"

"Maybe. I don't want to be in here when our guard-lady here wakes up." She frowned and used the un-opened glowstick to draw lines in the rubble around her feet. It would have been better to use ink, chalk, or even blood... But this was what she had.

"Rally?"

She fed a little energy into the design, from the energy of her soul.

"Rally, what are you doing?" He sounded worried.

She stepped back, careful on the treacherous footing. "Lem, could you come here, please?"

With his own winces, and his expression baffled, he did. He passed over the lines, and Rally felt only a shiver on her skin from it. She looked up at him and sucked in an awe-filled breath of air.

It was also a dust-filled one, and she broke into coughing until she thought to cover her mouth with her hands. "Damn," she wheezed. "You're really an angel."

His hands might have been painfully tight on her arms, if not for the suit. "And what," he whispered, "are you?"

"A pain in the butt, according to my older siblings. Let go. I need to call a digger."

"A _what_?"

"You have your resources, I have mine. And you're no human. If I can't even call the family _lares_ , you can try something of your own."

"I..." Belatedly, he tried to dissemble. "I don't know what you mean."

"I nearly got sacrificed once," Rally explained, getting out her knife and working on shoving her suit-sleeve up. "An angel showed up to kill the nasty thing that I nearly got sacrificed to." There were certain details she was leaving out, but it was close enough.

Lem was silent, but he got out his own flashlight and held it so that she didn't have to put hers in her teeth.

"Thanks." She cut herself just enough to wet the blade (it hurt, but she was hurting anyway) and started drawing in the rubble. "This might not work. I'm lousy at it. It's why I joined the cops. What are you doing on Earth, anyway? I thought angels were supposed to be pulling back."

"You what?"

"Off Earth. Since Heaven won, right? Cast down the Devil?"

"Er."

"Didn't get the memo?"

"No! I mean, it wasn't a memo... I mean... What are you _talking_ about?"

Rally kissed the blade of the knife. "Right now, I'm calling a _lar_." She began whispering in Latin. In Greek. In Hebrew. She didn't know how to order a burger or ask for the bathroom in any of those, but to call a spirit, blood of the household who gave it cakes and milk and brought it to the table...

She let power slip into the designs, into the words that she spoke. Not much, because she didn't have much, but all that she had was there.

Silence. Darkness. Nothing.

Rally kept whispering.

Finally, in her mind, something whispered back. _Daughter-of-the-family. It is too far. I cannot come. Wait for help._

She said, clearly, "Thank you for trying, _lar_." She kept the curses inside. _Lares_ didn't like rude people.

"It didn't work?" Lem asked.

Rally shook her head. "It's too far from home, where we are. It says to wait for help." She started climbing carefully on the rubble, heading for where the stairway had been. "On the other hand, the Lord helps those who help themselves, right?"

"Er."

"You were the one who wanted to dig, right?"

"I... suppose." He cracked a glowstick and wedged it up in what had been the hung ceiling. "What _are_ you?"

"Just a human with a little extra training. I own my own soul, by the way. We don't traffic in soul-bargains." She yanked at a board and pulled it free, handing it to Lem.

He put it to one side. "You're a sorcerer."

"A lousy excuse for one," she agreed. At least he hadn't called her a voodoo queen, or otherwise assumed that because her skin was dark, dark brown, she'd call for loa.

"But..."

She took pity on him. "Heaven's gotta know about me. I told you, I got rescued by an angel. An Archangel, he said, actually. He brought my oldest cousin back when he died. I thought he was the Angel of Death, then, but he said no."

"Which... Which Archangel?" Lem stared at her, accepting rocks and wood and handfuls of dirt, and dumping them off to the side.

"I don't know. He had black wings. Do all Archangels have black wings?"

"Ah. No. What was he wearing?"

Rally thought back. "Black pants. A black shirt. He had a huge sword. He fought the spirit. Killed it, too."

Lem sat down so quickly that she thought he'd tripped over something again. "He... Sword... Clothes... My Lord..."

Rally looked down at him and said what her mother would have said: "Lem, I'm saving my nervous breakdown for after we get out of here. Could you do the same, please?"

He looked up. "You're a sorcerer who was rescued by the Archangel I serve. Apparently."

She turned back to the rubble. "And I said that I'd be better someday, so I could save people when horrible stuff happened, instead of being the one who had to be saved." She grinned. "And look where it got me, eh? Heroes. We're awful."

"You'd do it again. Knowing, you'd do it again."

"Well, yeah. Except I'd have gotten us up and out a lot faster, if I'd known what was going to happen."

He laughed. "Okay, you have a point. Here, move over. I may be stronger than you are."

"I should _hope_ so. What's this world coming to, if angels can't be stronger... Sorry, that's my mom talking. Figuratively." She wiped her wrist across her forehead. "And I'm babbling."

"I think you're entitled. You go tie up the guard? This may take a while."

So she did, and then they both hauled at things. They uncovered a vent in the ceiling near the stairs, and called up it, but got silence back -- and fresher air.

His glowstick eventually started fading. She prodded the guard, who was still unconscious, and asked, "Do angels see in the dark?"

"Not necessarily. I can do a bit better than most humans, but..."

"I'll leave this till you tell me to get mine out, then."

"That'll work." He sighed, and shook out his hands from where he'd been digging at some of the looser stuff, trying to free a large chunk of concrete and rebar. "Why do humans _do_ this to each other? There didn't seem to be a single demon involved. Not even an ethereal."

Rally crawled up to help shove at the mess. "Because the freedom to be good means the freedom to be bad, and a lot of people are stupid. At least, that's what my family says."

"I pray there will be a day," Lem said, dragging at the metal bar poking out of the concrete, "when there will be less stupidness, then."

"Me too. I wish the world didn't need heroes."

After a while, her yawns sent her into coughing fits, and Lem told her to go rest where there was less dust. She fell asleep, and woke up with the guard cursing and weeping, and Lem working steadily. They had to go more slowly, so the whole mass wouldn't slide down and collapse with them under it.

The guard being awake meant that they couldn't talk about anything but mundanity, and there wasn't much to talk about, there. Lem was from a county over, called in for the raid. Rally was local. He fenced. She did archery. They both trained with guns, of course.

A speck of energy crept back into Rally's soul, and she knew it would be noon, up above.

She didn't know how many hours later it was... Too many, with nothing to drink, nothing to eat, and only the corner of their collapsed prison to use for an outhouse. But after a long time, they heard shouting from beyond the rubble. They yelled back, even the guard, and heard whoops and shouts that sounded happy, so they moved back and let other people do the work for a while.

When they saw lights shining in, it was blinding and the best sight she'd ever seen -- possibly barring the angel saving her from the smoke-monster. They half-slithered, half-climbed out, clutching the ropes tossed through. First Rally, then the guard, then Lem. Revolting sports-drinks found their way into Rally's hand, and she sucked them down as if they were lemonade. The rescue workers insisted on putting them all on stretchers, and taking them up into the fresh air and light, and then Rally's big sister was there to grab her in a smothering hug while news reporters snapped pictures.

Rally managed to get her sister to put her next to Lem, so the reporters could get photos of both heroic survivors (leaving out the not-so-heroic nutcase guard survivor). She whispered to him, "My name is Ralinda, after my grandmother. What's your name short for?" Because no way was she going to believe an angel was really named _Lem_ like some farmboy.

Lem blinked at her, but he replied, "Lemuel. Why?"

She grinned at him. "Nice to meet you. Come visit someday?"

He stared at her. "I might, at that."

Then she let the rescue people load her into an ambulance, waved for the cameras, and lay back to try to get some rest with clean air and a soft stretcher. She'd ask if everyone else got out... later.


	82. Suggestions

* * *

* * *

Leave-time was family time, for Rally. Time to go back to the home and the graveyard to pay respects to the bloodkin and heartkin, living and dead both. She'd lived, when the news thought her dead and only her older sister's demands and little mind-pushes had gotten people digging on the other side -- and that was reason enough for family to come for eating, drinking, and dancing.

Rally didn't want to dance, not with even the soles of her feet lightly roasted by her angel-suit's energy-heat conversions. It'd saved her life, but that didn't mean the aches weren't there. So she sat back in a lawn recliner and watched everyone else laughing and dancing till her older sister plumped herself down on the stool beside her. "And who _was_ that nice young man you got blown under with?" she asked, in that out of the blue way that meant she'd been chewing things over and over till she gave up and decided to be direct.

Rally laughed and said, "His name's Lem, and he's an angel."

Anyone else's family, maybe they wouldn't have taken her literally. But her sister's eyes went wide and she nodded slowly. "Well, and he's been invited to visit, hasn't he?"

Sheepishly, Rally studied her bare toes; the warm, humid night air was enough weight on them. "Sorry. I should have asked first. I was a little..."

Her sister waved a hand. "Done's done. Contain the summoned first, and worry about whether it's what you called after." She hefted herself to her feet, more muscle than plump though it didn't show. "I'll ask mama."

"Thanks." Rally reached over for the lemonade that her little cousins were happy enough to fetch for their hero "auntie." (Cousin or true aunt, it didn't particularly matter to the family term. She was old enough to be an aunt, so that's what her title was now.)

But it wasn't her mother who sat down on the stool next.

Rally was instantly twelve again, and wanted to scramble up and fetch lemonade or a better chair or _anything_. "Lady Una!"

The other woman -- who didn't look a day older than when the Angel of not-Death had brought back her cousin Jacob -- waved a hand. The gray parrot on her shoulder shifted its grip to compensate. "Don't you dare get up on _my_ account, officer."

Rally subsided obediently. "Yes'm."

Lady Una snorted. "Your sister Melsina says that policeman you were photographed with was an angel, and he's got an invitation to visit."

Rally felt even more sheepish. "Yes'm," she mumbled.

"Mm. Do you know anything else about him?"

"He thinks th' angel who brought Jacob back... And saved me when I was a kid... Is, um, his lord? The one he serves?"

Lady Una blinked, then she laughed. "Oh, well then. Just keep him out of the ritual basements and attics and we're all fine."

Rally relaxed. "Thanks, ma'am. I know I should have asked first, but--"

"But it wasn't really a time of askings. I may understand such things just a little." Her smile faded to something more tired. "Just in case... Don't fall in love with an angel, Rally. They'll break your heart without meaning to, just because of what they are and what they aren't."

She looked out at the dancers, and saw her parents dancing, her mother with only one good arm because of a stupid car crash and too stubborn to let anyone try to conjure up a fix after she'd been seen by so many doctors with only the one working -- and thought of how her father'd tried to argue her out of it, the both of them screaming so they wouldn't weep. Saw a cousin who'd cried her eyes out over a handsome young witch-man who'd gone to walking out with someone else. Thought of Cynthia, her teammate, whose wife'd left her because she couldn't handle how being a cop could eat someone's life up. "Ma'am... Lady Una. All respect, but humans do that too."

"Huh." Lady Una's eyes went distant, looking out into the night. "You've a point there, Rally." She focused back on the present, and Rally's face. Her voice was wry and rich with amusement. "All right. As you will, and as things may or may not turn out, then."

"I don't even _know_ him, anyway."

"True enough." Lady Una leaned her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands. "I should note, that if paths go as paths may, there could come a point where he says his vessel's not made to sire children."

Rally didn't cough, and was pretty sure that she wasn't showing a blush -- being darker of skin than Lady Una herself -- but she couldn't help squirming as if someone'd sung "Rally and Lem, sitting in a tree..."

The family's patron continued, either oblivious to Rally's embarrassment or amused by it, "He's right, and his Lord's not one to approve of such relations 'twixt his servants and mortals... But there are rituals that get around matters, and neither of them need know in time to object." She ignored her parrot's gentle bites at the curve of her ear.

Rally protested, "But ma'am, I don't even _want_ kids! Being police's too dangerous."

"Mayhap." Lady Una smiled. "Still, it's a human's right to change her mind. The other paths, you don't need any maps to walk. That one... You should know the trail first."

"I... I wasn't even thinking it, ma'am. Honest."

"Not _yet_ , I'm sure." She stood up, shorter, smaller, more graceful than Rally's sister. "But we're human, and I'll bet he's a pretty enough lad. Nothing wrong with mind-candy, whether you reach out or not." And with a little wave, she and her familiar were drifting off through the rest of the family.

Rally sipped her lemonade and rubbed the glass on her forehead, hot from more than suit-burn.

Sometimes, having an immortal family patron and teacher was as bad as having an extra, nosy, grandparent or aunt.


	83. A Dream Is What You Make Of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Remember, I hop around in time a lot...)

* * *

* * *

Ever since she can remember, Vera has dreamed.

Most of her dreams are normal. But she has always had the dream of the word. The trappings may be different -- nightmare or surreal or mundane -- but in them, there is something she wants to do, and she opens her mouth... and the silence wakes her.

When she's ten, and learning the first circles and rituals, the dreams sometimes have her drawing glowing lines in the air... But sometimes, it's just the word.

Vera never finishes it, in her dreams. She always, always, always wakes before she has spoken it entire.

Her first real kiss, at fifteen, is with a prince of elfland. It's not bad, though it might have been better if she'd not been protected from his glamor. She banishes him anyway -- she, her older sister, and Ralinda, her soft-spoken mother -- and they never breathe a mention of the matter to her father.

Vera can never remember what word it is she's trying to say.

She wins scholarships to college, her mind and stubborn dedication to her studies giving her a choice of places from grades alone, and never mind her skin color. She lays a few ghosts to rest, on campus, and several remnants that are not ghosts so much as ancient memories that cling to the university's museum exhibits. The last world war was hard on humans... and other things, that she learns only from her parents, and their patron.

At college, Vera dreams she finds the word in books, but either she can't read it, or the last syllables are on another page that she starts to turn... before she wakes.

A bachelor's degree, in history, double-major in theology. A minor in languages. Finally, a business degree just in case -- and she learns from that as much from the others. (But a good part of what she learns is that she does not want to go into business.) She dates. She has second and third and fourth kisses, and a fifth that is purely mortal and far better than the elf prince's try.

The word in Vera's dreams is nowhere to be found in the waking world.

When she comes home, finally... it's the boy next door, practically, whose kiss is the most interesting. He's got no college behind him. His parents were military, moving hither and yon and never settling down roots, and he's most at home in the depths of some car or truck, working the magic of hands-on knowledge. He seems laconic, but that's because he's shy. He seems ill at ease with learning, but that's only till she can explain things with clay, blocks, or drawings in the sand. If he can touch it with his hands, even in imagination, he can grasp it. It's another language, with subtexture and silence.

Vera's dream of a word has no meaning there. Or maybe all meaning. She's not sure.

Her parents are appalled when they find out she's been keeping company with a man named Rudy, a "boy with no education, no prospects, and no _magic_." She won't stand for it. She's twenty two years old and no teenager without a clue what she wants in life. And if they want her to toe the line _now_ , to let her parents _matchmake_ as if she were nothing but _breeding stock_ and not a sorceress in her own right... As her mother repeats, "We just want what's best for you, honey," Vera yells, "Then stop running my life!" And she storms out of the house before she can say anything that would have only enough truth to hurt.

Her mother moves to stop her... But her father holds out a hand, suddenly almost serene. Vera doesn't stop to wonder why. She doesn't take her car. She runs, and runs, and runs, till she's out of breath, and then she walks.

In the silence of the outside, with the highway noises back behind her and an overgrown yard hiding some abandoned house in front... Vera wishes she could speak the word in her dreams, and make everything the way she wants.

Instead, all she can do is yell her frustration to the darkening sky.

And at the end of it, when she thinks she might scream or break into tears, a voice behind her says, "I know how you feel."

Vera turns around, and there's her family patron, Lady Una. It's strange, to be taller than her now. "Ma'am," she says, because those are the polite manners that her mother's always insisted on. _How can you know how I feel? No one tells **you** what to do._

Lady Una -- dark hair, skin that's darker than some and lighter than Vera's, eyes that are green like a summer woods, jeans and shirt like Vera's own -- steps closer, smiling a bit. "I suspect that your father hopes I'll talk you into something, the way I talked him around so many years ago. On the other hand, I've only heard his half of the story." She sits on the curb and pats the sidewalk beside her. "So what's your side?"

Vera's spoken to Lady Una before, of course. Sorceries that her parents couldn't teach her. How to key a fast ritual with a few notes sung only in the head. Once, that she doesn't remember, her father says that Lady Una told Vera a secret when Vera was a little baby. (She wishes she remembered that one.) But she's never thought of the family patron as a possible _ally_ in matters of family.

She sits down. "There's this boy. His name's Rudy. He's working for the mechanic down on Central and Linden. I love him and I want to spend my life with him and have his babies. And my parents say... they say I'm _wasting_ myself with him, because he's never been to college and... and he's not a sorcerer. But... Couldn't he _learn_?"

"Some can, some can't. Your grandmother Veronica doesn't have the talent. Your father and mother both do." Matter-of-fact, that, but then Lady Una's voice goes thoughtful. "You, now... You've talent and then some. You've got potential you haven't yet reached. There's some who'd say you're wasting all that on a mundane man. Especially if you're wanting to settle down and have kids."

"What do _you_ say?" Vera doesn't know if Lady Una's an ally or not, from that.

Lady Una looks up into the sky, where the stars are coming out behind high, wispy clouds. "I... think I try not to say, this time. But you know, only a sorcerer can hold the other half."

There's a silence of dreams around them.

"What?"

Lady Una's eyes, as she turns her head to look at Vera, are the green of forests that had never heard the step of humans before. They're the green of ancient moss on ancient rocks. They're a green that seems to extend into the silence, the color of a not-sound. "The secret I told you, when you were a baby. I could only tell the other half to someone whose soul could hold it."

Vera whispers, "Rudy, he's a _good_ man..."

Lady Una shakes her head, smiling wry. "Goodness, child, has nothing to do with it. Size doesn't matter -- the smallest soul can hold infinite goodness, and the largest... be filled with petty evil. But unless his soul is capable of holding sorcery, he won't be able to hold the other half of the secret. Not and remain himself after."

Vera swallows. She has always dreamed of the word, and woken to wish to know what it was, complete. But... "Does it matter?"

Lady Una folds her arms on her drawn-up knees and looks up into the sky again. "It would matter to me. But it's not my choice. It's yours. Your life, your questions, your answers."

The silence lets in little noises. Crickets, mostly. The traffic from far away is still gone. "Why can't you tell me the other half?"

"You wouldn't be yourself, after. Two lives joined, two sorcerers bound, two circles drawn and linked... You could hold both halves between you, I think, and be yourselves. But..." Lady Una sighs. "Your life is what you make of it."

Vera listens to the silence, the silence of her half of the secret, and can see herself standing hand in hand with someone (whose face she cannot see) and speaking a word that would deafen the Earth with the power of it. And she can see herself and Rudy, with a child on his shoulders and a baby in her belly, and all of them content with the happiness that comes and goes in the way of families.

Something in her, something in the silence, says that those visions are as true as the stars and sun and light and air.

Vera draws up her knees, and rests her arms and chin on them. "Would you be disappointed, ma'am?"

There are the sounds of cars in the distance, now. Lady Una slants a look at her that is only a color, and only eyes. "Child, _I've_ no intention of sleeping with the lad or having his babes. What I may or may not regret is not the subject of discussion." She pauses. "I do hope you won't give up sorcery, though. That sort of attempt rarely ends well. And if the lad can't love you despite your abilities and proclivities, better to know now than later."

"Proclivities?" Vera lifts her head in puzzlement that is close to outrage.

"You _do_ have a tendency to look for ghosts to send on, or tell outer spirits to stop trespassing. I don't think you'll stop just because you get married or have children."

Vera deflates. "Oh. Yeah."

Lady Una stands up and holds out a hand. "Come on, let's go back to the family dwelling. There's no sense sitting out here getting eaten by mosquitoes. I'll talk to your parents. You can think about what you want to tell your Rudy."

Vera accepts the help up. "You think I should keep him?"

Lady Una's hand is warm, and both normal and... not, somehow. "I think that either you should tell him it can't work, or you should tell him the truth of everything you are. Anything else is a sit-com that ends in tears and possibly blood. And almost certainly regrets."

Vera nods, and walks back. She only half-listens to Lady Una's calm deflection of her parents' concern, and goes right to bed.

In her dreams, she begins to speak a word and wakes to the normal silence of a sleeping house.

She thinks that she will tell Rudy everything...

...except why she knows she will always awaken now and then, beside him, with a dream forever incomplete.


	84. Rudy

* * *

* * *

It's a hard thing, to love a witch-woman, when you're not a witch yourself.

She's beautiful, more than she knows. Her parents, and her -- they're educated. And they're all witches. They draw signs that pull luck, or ward bad luck. Rudy's _seen_ a little flower-fairy curtsey to his wife.

_She's_ seen things that make her wake up at night, sudden as a nightmare, and just murmur that it's a dream.

He loves Vera. He loves her so much he thinks his heart would break, sometimes. There aren't words for what he feels. He loves their baby girl. He loves all the children they haven't had yet, that she says she wants. (A big household, like she had, with sisters and brothers and maybe not a lot of grandparents yet, but...)

It wasn't easy. A witch-woman, throwing herself away on a mechanic? Her parents didn't approve, and even when they decide to like him a little, father of their grandchild, there's a something in their hugs and handshakes that feels he should've been more than he is.

Her patron...

Lady Una is small, beautiful, and smooth. They call her "Lady" and it doesn't feel silly. _He_ calls her Lady, too. Rudy feels _she_ doesn't approve of him either, but she respects Vera enough not to show it.

So one night, when Vera's off with her big brother, warding the graveyard... Rudy puts little Sheila into a sling, and goes into the house and down into the basement. The door -- it doesn't need any other description, it's just _the door_ \-- is closed, but he knocks on the smooth, heavy wood.

It seems to take forever. He's honestly not sure how long he waits, with the baby-sling a weight on his shoulder and his heart jumping in his chest. He can feel little Sheila shifting in her sleep.

Finally, the door opens in, and there's Lady Una, with her gray parrot on her shoulder.

"M-ma'am," Rudy stammers.

"Yes?" Her voice is smooth as satin edged with velvet.

"I..." He takes a breath, even though the air's heavy in his lungs. "Ma'am, can you make me a witch-man?"

She blinks, slow like he blinks when he's thinking how a part feels in his hand, how the heft of it will tell him whether it's good or bad, or how he sets his head back and feels the smooth or the rough of a running engine that tells him where a car needs more work, or when it's done. "That's an interesting question. No, I can't."

He starts to protest, but she holds up a hand, and says, "You'd die if I tried. Some miracle might change you, someday, but tonight? You'd die."

"But..." He feels the skin over his face all tight. "Vera... She..."

"She chose _you_ , Rudy." It's like she reached in and put her hand on everything that he wants, without having to ask. Sometimes Vera can do that, put her fingertips on the thoughts that Rudy doesn't have words for. Lady Una... is better at it, grasping the whole thought at once. "She loves _you_ , wanted _you_ more than she wanted to look for some sorcerer."

"She _deserves_ a sorcerer," Rudy says bitterly. Someone who can understand her like she understands him.

"Maybe." Voice as smooth as the polish on a car, and as gleaming. "But she knew the choice when she made it."

"I... I just want to be... more. For her."

The pause stretches, long and elastic. And something in Lady Una melts. Softer. She sighs. "It's a rare thing, for any one person to be everything another wants, or needs. And she doesn't want anyone else, for those other parts of her that you don't complete. She chose you, Rudy. She chose _you_ , and you're enough for her. Perfect... isn't what she expects."

For a moment, he wonders who Lady Una loves, and if he's enough. Or if she has her heart cut up into pieces because no one can be everything _she_ needs.

But what he asks is, "Can't I try, Lady Una?"

She shakes her head. "Not tonight. Likely not ever. You'd die, and then she'd wonder forever what she could've done, that you'd have felt how much she cared."

Rudy feels small, and gritty. Some rusty part that's just "good enough for now." He looks down at the floor, all industrial basement carpet, rough and thin.

Lady Una reaches out and pushes his shoulder till he looks at her again.

Her eyes are ice against his eyes. Her words are stone around his heart. "Don't throw away what you've got, just because it's not perfection. Don't break what you hold, because it's a little chipped. Cherish it, like that little baby there. Hug it close and don't drop it because it's not some _fantasy_. I know, even more than she does, what she turned away from when she chose how her heart felt with you. Don't you dare cut her heart out because you feel you're _not enough_. If she says you are, then _trust her_."

In all the confusion that runs inside him, Rudy can only pick out the words, _Who didn't trust **you** , ma'am?_ But he doesn't say it. He stammers something, he's not sure what, and bows a little, all awkward because of baby Sheila, and flees.

When his wife comes back, Rudy's in the rocking chair with Sheila. Vera's face lights up as she comes over to them, and she's the one who kneels down to put her cheek on his leg beside their daughter, and wraps her hands around his ankle. He strokes her curls, and tries to think of the right words.

She speaks first, a tired murmur. "Rudy, you're the best."

It's going to be hard, to love a witch-woman when he can't feel the magic... But Rudy grasps the thought that maybe, maybe he has the shape of what Lady Una meant.


	85. Some Small Resolution

* * *

* * *

The game of tag ended -- after several Songs of Motion -- in a rooftop garden. Lilith let him catch her there, beneath a trellis wound so thickly with night-flowers that it was dark and hidden. The thick, rich scent of the plants seemed it should be some sorcerous concealment, to add to the mundane. With their hearts pounding after the ariel chase, it was so easy, so natural to push their hair from their faces so that mouths could meet -- and when she paused...

He knew that familiar hesitation, as well as he knew the patterns of dueling hundreds of his Servitors. Or, perhaps, as well as he knew some of the habits that even Michael had -- for it was a pattern he'd not found the trick of disrupting (at least, not when the old Seraph was sober; he was _hardly_ going to try plying Lilith with wines). But even as he'd sought new tactics, new moves, to try to break the patterns of War in duel, he could try new ones here, and he shifted so they half-leaned against something soft and shifting (ah, beanbag chair), with her back more against his chest.

And she let him draw her into this pattern. He'd intended to be more patient, but the heart-choking amazement found outlet with her neck beneath his lips. Movements too firm to be kisses, not sharp enough to be bites... He moved one hand her ribs, beneath her breast, and the other wrapping low on her belly and hip. Prisoning, of a form, but she _let_ him...

"Laurence," she whispered.

He felt his answering hum of query as a deeper rumble in his vessel's chest than he was used to. His hands wanted to curl 'round the hilt of a blade. He moved the one, down to gather slack in her shirt, and up again to feel the weight of her breast in his hand, and the warmth of her through the fabric. There was skin beneath his other hand's thumb, where her shirt had come untucked from her pants; he curled that thumb around and under the waistband, brushing the hollow of her hip.

It made her gasp, just a little, before she asked, "Are you sure you want..."

_You,_ he thought. "Yes," he murmured back. Mucky corporeality, distasteful in isolation. As part of another's nature, though, there were differences. If he'd courted an Ofanite, he'd have learned the joys of races; if an Elohite, thought-games of logic and deduction. Humans had their own natures. Even this one. He moved his thumb against her skin again, seeking the stroke that would make her gasp again.

He found it, and then again, and her voice was a distracted accusation. "Just want -- reduce me -- like some helpless mortal..."

The thought of it, of the feel-sight-sound of her vulnerable and pleasure-lost in his hands, went straight to some part of him that flashed incoherent images of duels and battles; from there, the vessel's only outlet was to try to make a sword of flesh and blood to press against her buttock. "Only as your gift," he murmured to her ear, his lips brushing her skin there, "freely given."

Her breath was quick, short, almost-gasps, with her ribs rising and falling beneath his hand. Then, sighed out on that breath, "Let go..."

He did. Not as fast as if he'd wanted to. But he did, opening his arms outward and trying not to curse himself for pushing Lilith into this pattern.

She lay against him still for a moment, and then pushed herself sitting, careful of how their legs were tangled somewhat.

He saw her look over her shoulder, in the shadow-broken moonlight that filtered through the leaves and flowers. Mostly night-roses, he thought absently; genetically engineered to bloom in the darkness. Lilith had once said she preferred the kind with thorns. He waited to see if she would flee, and told his aching heart and vessel to still their complaints.

Carefully, she lay back down against him, reaching back over her shoulders to stroke his hair, fingers trailing over his ear now. "It's fine. It's fine. I just... had to know if I could say it."

" _Oh_ ," he managed, heart and vessel both aching for other reasons now. It wasn't enough to unbutton her pants, to slip hands beneath fabric. Not enough just to explore this new pattern. This gift of surrender demanded some greater answer, some pledge and protection. He wished he could take the emotions in him and find words for them. Find some fitting Oath to gift her with, in return.

He shifted, just enough, that he could show his wings and wrap them around her.


	86. Friendship

* * *

* * *

There is a certain comfort in being able to... be yourself, with someone else. Rally is the worst sorcerer in her family, barely able to charge the ritual circles or veves, but she's grown up surrounded by sorcerers and spirits. She's honored the _lars_. She's walked the perimeters of the lands her family owns and protects.

She's been rescued by an angel, when some of that got her into trouble, and she found ways to grow and use her skills to rescue and protect other people.

And that's why she's bundled up against the cold and snow, military-short curls securely under a warm hat with earflaps, trekking about in the wilderness with someone who's hardly bundled at all -- because there's a comfort when you don't have to wear more than a jacket and gloves, because you're not really human, and you can talk more freely. Lem is _careful_ not to say too much, but... She knows he's an angel, and in the hierarchy of angels, he works for the one who once saved Rally from the worst kind of sorcerers.

His gloved hand takes her thickly-mittened one, as he helps her across a stream. There's not a _lot_ of snow, only a couple inches, but Rally's used to hot, sticky summers, and chill, rainy winters. Not this treacherous white quilt over everything.

"...so we're still not sure," she says, catching her balance, "if we should be content to chase some beings away, or if we should be working harder to catch them, or hunting them further, or both..."

"Or if you should tell me?" Lem asks, with his understated grin white against his deep-tan face. In outdoor light -- even filtered through the clouds like it is right now -- his eyes lighten from golden-brown to stained-glass amber.

"It's been suggested," Rally admits. "So now there's family debate about whether we deal with things like humans, or ask an angel to take care of us like we were kids or pets."

Lem winces. "You're not pets."

"Kids?"

He grimaces a little. "Well, some angels are... what's the term, older than dirt? I mean that literally," he adds. "Some of the Archangels say they helped shove the solar system around to make sure Earth happened."

Rally whistles with respect.

Lem adds, "I wasn't around for that part."

She grins and offers a stabilizing hand as he crosses over a fallen tree in the path. He probably doesn't really need it, but he doesn't refuse, either. "So is it rude to ask angels how old they _are_?"

"Mmmmmm-no." He returns the favor as she follows. "But do you want to know?"

"Maybe not yet," she says. The family's patron, Lady Una, is... ancient, and lets it show sometimes. Lem doesn't feel _that_ old, but maybe he's just working harder to hide it... Rally doesn't want to feel like a waist-high brat right then. "Name's not Pandora, after all."

"Heh." They crunch along the path in silence for a while, but it's companionable, not awkward. Eventually, he says, "You... haven't asked me very much. About... angels."

They've driven up-state together for this meeting during their winter holiday breaks, and on the way they'd mostly talked about pit-stops, cars, the latest Star Trek continuity reboot and the genderswapped version that was warping through the internet... Lem was an angel, but he _lived_ like a human -- except for the not-sleeping part.

"I asked you about all the Christmas music on the radio!"

He laughs. "All right, that's true."

She scuffs up some snow, grinning herself. "Besides, I couldn't figure out... _what_ I should ask. Seemed rude, since you weren't bringing it up."

He mirrors the expression. "I couldn't figure out what I should say." He sobers, then. "But I wanted to bring you here because it's important to me."

"All right." It is pretty here -- even with the snow -- and she's curious even if her middle name _isn't_ Pandora.

He continues, "It's only fair, after all, since, well, you said about your family, and you, and..."

"Don't make me throw snowballs at you, Lem," she warns.

"Ha!" He scrubs his own face with his snowy hand. "I am a terrible, terrible Laurentine. We're supposed to be serious, and calm, and never stammer."

"Laurentine?" Rally asks.

"The Archangel I serve, his name is Laurence," Lem says. "We're... his blades. His Laurentines."

She says, "Fair enough," and reaches out to take his hand, because he's definitely nervous now. "Not your fault he didn't introduce himself when I was a kid."

Lem laughs. "I'm glad you think so."

They come 'round a bend, past some bushes, to where the stream they crossed earlier has become too wide to jump over, and deeper, perhaps two feet; the water is dark and indistinct in the cloudlight. It hops over and around stepping-stones, the snow covering where moss would be. Rally's summer-trained reflexes think it would be a lovely place to sit in nothing but shorts, splashing one's feet and watching the droplets arc out.

Lem holds her hand tightly, and has his other around a narrow tree. She looks at him, leaving the question hanging in the air between them.

Finally, he takes a deeper breath -- not looking at her -- and says, "This is where a young man, just recently accepted to the police academy, went walking out on his winter break, slipped in the snow out there, hit his head on one of those rocks, and drowned."

That's... not what Rally might have expected, and she can only watch his profile, solemn like he'd said he wasn't good at.

"My Lord Laurence... There are different kinds of angel," he interrupts himself. "You know that?"

"Yes."

"Different kinds of angels receive different boons from their Archangels. Mine... When a soldier dies a useless death... The soul is gone, usually reincarnated. But the body... Sometimes the body can have a chance to do what the soul would have, but for a stupid accident. To make a difference. And that young man -- named Lem, too, as it happened -- counted. Soldier, and a meaningless death."

"So you...?"

Lem nods. "So I climbed out of that stream, coughing up water, and staggered back... home. To... my human parents."

Rally sucks in air. "That's..."

"Halfway between horrible and... horrible?" Lem says, now meeting her eyes. "I had skull fractures, brain swelling, a good start on pneumonia. It let me use the 'brain damage' excuse for anything that didn't match. I heal more quickly now, but I was in the hospital for a while, feeling my way into a life."

"I can't decide if that's awful for the family, or not as bad as knowing."

"I can't either," Lem says, "and I've lived it. I worked extra hard, to try to help everyone. Thanked God that they had other kids, so they wouldn't be too disappointed that... I wasn't going to."

"Did you like them?" she asks, wondering if she'd have liked a human Lem, if she'd have dared call the _lar_ , if he'd have lived... Well, he'd been under her, and both of them in angel-suits to protect them from impacts, so probably that much.

"After a couple years, they were my family," he says simply. "I still had times I felt like the secret cuckoo. Still do. But... Mom and Dad, a little sister, and an older brother. I wouldn't have traded them for anything, except the real Lem not slipping on a rock because he misjudged how slippery snow was. It was an honor to be part of their family. It still is, even if I don't get to see Mom and Dad so much. They moved up north with Eddy -- Edna, my sister -- after Dad fell and broke his leg early this year."

"Sold the house?" Rally asks.

Lem takes another breath, lets it out in a cloud, and says, "No. I... kind of asked if I could take over the property taxes. We're out far enough, they're not too hard. My food budget's already kind of... flexible." He grins at her again, if a little hesitantly.

She tilts her head at him. "Have to admit, I wasn't sure if we were going to camp out in the van or find a motel."

Lem nearly doubles over with his bark of laughter. "We still could! If you thought it was, I dunno, creepy or something!" He's still holding tightly to her hand, still holding tightly to the tree.

Rally shakes her head. "Nah." She take her own breath, with the cold air prickling all down her throat. "I'd like to see where you... grew up?"

"Thanks," he says, as sincere and open as his farm-boy name.

They stand, looking at each other, for a little while before he clears his throat. "Right! Um, here, this way..." He turns and starts away from the stream, still holding her hand. "I actually have a few braincells to rub together, so I came up on the stream from the side where we _don't_ have to cross it to go back home."

"But what about the van?" she asks cheerfully. They'd left it in the parking lot for a campsite that was closed for the winter.

"Okay, I'm not _really_ smart," he laughs. "Just a little smart! Sometimes!"

"If we were _really_ smart," Rally says, "would we be high-combat trained cops?"

"Probably not!"

They banter all the way back, as the sparse woods fade to a field that's not yet overgrown enough to hide the two-story house beyond it. Lem unlocks the back door with the habit of "family" and not "company," and hits the lights on a kitchen that's less retro than Rally'd expected, but somehow still timeless. It reminds her of her grandmother Ralinda's kitchen, even if that table saw just as much sorcery laid out upon it as other kitchens saw homework or art projects.

Lem's saying, "I, um, if you ever want to meet them, that'd be... Really great! Though..."

"They'll wonder if you've got a girlfriend?" Rally grins, closing the door behind her and stamping her feet on the mat like Lem'd done.

He rubs the back of his head with one hand, and pulls his hat off with the other. "They were really understanding when I came out of the closet as ace. But I'm sure they'd hope."

Lady Una warned her about Lem's sort -- that they weren't _allowed_ to have mortal lovers. Lady Una'd also as much said that if it happened, it could go as far as Rally wanted, even to having a kid, though that wasn't supposed to be possible at all.

Rally tells herself that she wouldn't even be _thinking_ about it -- especially not on the first date, or even the second! -- except for people putting those thoughts in her head. She shrugs all the harder for it. "Not like I wouldn't get the same, if Mom didn't know you weren't human." It's definitely time to change the subject, though. "So... what kind of angel _are_ you? Not the kind who can't lie..."

He takes the question with relief and a laugh, even while he takes her coat to hang up by the door. "I am the world's _worst_ Kyriotate," he admits.

"Kyrio... What, the _body-hop_ \--" She interrupts herself this time, "Sorry, sorry, that's got to be rude, sorry!"

He laughs again and offers an arm to steady her while she peels herself out of the boots, and then the padded snow-pants. "No, no, it's okay. I've been called worse. Yeah, one of them. Most of us can't have our own bodies, so we have to borrow if we're on Earth. I'd be _crispy_ if I didn't have a body of my own. I'm... just incompetent to borrow anyone, and even if I made it, I'd be terrified that something'd _happen_ and my host would get damaged. Which would be awful twice-over for me, because I'd be guilty _and_ dissonant. And now I'm babbling again, so would you like some hot cocoa? I'm afraid it's instant."

Even her grandfather's instructions about angels weren't so... so _easy_ with knowing. Rally lets him pull a kitchen chair out for her (she's "guest" enough for that, for at least an hour or two, she figures), and says, "I'd love some. Dissonant?"

"I have no idea if I should be telling you all this," he says, opening cabinets, getting cups, popping water in the microwave.

"Ain't likely to hurt," she answers. "Sorcery won't do more than send a pager-beep to an angel, at best." It's her turn to laugh, face in her hand. "And here I am, _chatting_ with you like... like I don't know, we were just folks. And now I'm talking like my mom again."

He brings over the cups, hot and smelling wonderful as her nose wakes up again from frozen slumber. "Hey, I'm chatting with a sorcerer who met my Archangel when she was younger. Promise it's just pager-beeps?"

"Promise!" She blows on her drink and takes tiny sips so she won't burn her tongue... and they chat. About angels, about sorcery, about growing up without the power of her siblings, about being a thing of eyes and wings and hands, and having to learn how to walk with only two feet. It's as comfortable as chatting about movies, and cars, and archery or fencing.

_Well, and if I ever get up there, like my cousin did,_ she thinks and doesn't say, _it sounds like you'd be able to give just about the best hugs shy of family._


End file.
